


Gravity is Nothing

by allonsys_girl



Category: Fargo (2014), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Crossover, Dark John Watson, Dubious Morality, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, I'm in love with him being in love with John, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, John is really unstable, M/M, Murder, Non canon compliant, Organized Crime, Prostitution, Sherlock is a Mess, Therapy, Top John Watson, Violence, Violent Thoughts, and really just an amazing boyfriend, but also a saint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-01-21 12:49:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 62,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1551098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/pseuds/allonsys_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson died the same moment Sherlock Holmes did. This is the story of the man who took his place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cracked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nothingislittle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingislittle/gifts).



> i'm cradling the hardest, heaviest part of me in my hand  
> the ship is pitching and heaving, my limbs are bobbing and weaving  
> and i think this is something i understand  
> i just need a couple vaccinations for my far-away vacation  
> i'm going to go ahead and go boldly because a little bird told me  
> that jumping is easy, that falling is fun  
> up until you hit the sidewalk, shivering and stunned
> 
> Ani DiFranco, Swan Dive

_**John** _

John gnawed into his lip, already scabbed and raw from weeks of doing the same, and flipped up the visor from the plane window, squinting down into the cloud cover to see if he could make out the city sprawled out below. The sun was just rising over Minneapolis, and the tops of a few of the tallest skyscrapers glowed with a pink translucence.

The man in the seat next to him stirred. "Hey, buddy, you wanna close the window? Some of us are trying to sleep."

John slowly turned his head, taking in his neighbor. Younger than John, but flabby, pinkish and pale, with a receding hairline and soft hands. He was staring at John expectantly. John felt his upper lip curl in a snarl.

"Why don't you reach across me and fucking try it?" This was the way he talked to people now. John Watson, the old John Watson, would never have talked to anyone like this. He supposed it was because he just truly didn't care anymore. About himself. About other people. About anything, really. Not since he'd watched Sherlock falling, coat billowing...No. No. Don't picture it.

He shook his head to erase the image, and fixed his eyes on Flabby. The man looked nervous now, a wary look in his watery eyes.

"There's no need to curse at me, man. Just, you know...it's early." His voice betrayed his nervousness, quavering pathetically.

John snorted a laugh. He could break this shitbag in two. No reason to pick a fight on a plane when they were landing in minutes. He'd tear him a new one once they were safely in the airport.

He clapped the man on the shoulder, making him jump. Hitched a charming smile on his face, and allowed it to reach his eyes. "Sure. I understand. Sorry I snapped at you. Let me make it up to you. You have any bags you need help with?"

John's natural charm had helped him out of quite a few tight spots recently. People liked him. They trusted him. A few eye crinkles and a crooked grin, and people would follow him anywhere. Even when they really, really shouldn't have.

***

John sucked his teeth, rubbed the knuckles of his right hand as he looked out into the morning fog laying thick over the cab stand. Fucking guy’s jaw was hard as concrete, for as pussy as he looked. Well. He’d definitely come off the worse, even though John’s hand would be sore for a day or so. Flabby would certainly think twice before provoking any short Englishmen again.

He chuckled darkly to himself and pulled a pack of Marlboros out of his pocket, tapped the pack against his hand and took one between his lips. He reflected back on the number of people who had been at the wrong end of his fists in the last year. He didn’t even recognise himself sometimes anymore. That was alright. John Watson died with Sherlock Holmes. With one sickening crack of bone against the kerb, everything he had been or had wanted to be sputtered out like a wet flame.

He lit the cigarette and pulled hard at the filter, bent down and poked his head in the window of one of the cabs. “You in service?”

The cabbie swung his head up from his phone, where he’d been thumbing in text, and his dull eyes flicked to the cigarette in John’s hand. “Yeah, but you can’t smoke in cabs no more, man.”

John laughed. Fuck, was everyone in this city trying to pick a fight with him? Ah, he wasn’t in the mood. He took another drag and threw it on the ground, crushing it with his heel.

“No problem. Pop the boot?” He held up his bags.

The cabbie squinted at him like he was speaking a foreign language. “The what, mister?”

John’s patience was on the wane. He ground his back teeth together and did his best to not look murderous. “I forget what Americans call it. The back - the…”

“Trunk?” The cabbie’s voice was derisive, thick with laughter. An image flashed through John’s mind of his bloody face on the ground between John’s fists, saliva flying as his head was punched sideways.

You can’t beat everyone who looks at you funny, John. No? Why not? Who’s here to stop me?

The cabbie’s bloody face melted into smooth pale lines and translucent grey ringed with black. The lump that rose up in his throat was even more unwelcome than usual. His eye twitched.

“Yeah, that. The trunk.” He wiped his index finger and thumb over his lower lip, pinched it between them. Nervous habit.

He’d been in America for less than an hour and already left someone bloody and begging in a bathroom stall. Probably should rein it in a little. Keep a low profile.

The boot popped open and he threw his bags in. He slid across the torn vinyl seat as his mobile pinged.

“Where to?”

“Nearest cheap motel.” John ignored the persistent chirping of the phone and rested his forehead against the smeared glass of the cab window. The cab started, jerked, pulled out into the ring of the airport road. They left the airport and merged onto a sprawling four lane road, the silvery skyline of Minneapolis laid out in the distance.

_What do people normally say?_   
_Piss off._

He cracked his knuckles, swallowed hard. He hated riding in cabs now. He couldn’t even look at a London cab, the shiny black exterior reflected back to him every ounce of his grief, amplified it. In their windows, he saw a blonde head and a black, laughing, eyes fixed on each other. He could feel his hand brushing Sherlock’s on the seat, both of them startling at how little it startled them. John holding their bags as they went on a case holiday to Dartmoor, Sherlock holding the door wide for him. Their feet resting against each other. Sherlock falling asleep against the door, black lashes fluttering, John unable to look away.

The last months in London, he walked everywhere, took the tube. Course, even walking reminded him of Sherlock, that bloody coat smacking into his calf constantly, Sherlock’s elbow bumping his arm. Their hands sweeping past each other, a pinky curled briefly into a palm. The night sky above them, Sherlock’s long neck outstretched, his face tilted up, John smiling at him the way a person smiles at their first love. Pride in them just being alive.

_I thought you didn’t care about things like that._   
_Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it._

Everything reminded him of Sherlock. Breathing did. Every inhalation, exhalation. Every expansion of his lungs was something Sherlock would never do again.

He hated London.

Mrs Hudson hadn’t wanted him to leave. She’d begged, wept, told him he didn’t have to pay rent anymore. He’d hugged her, hands still swollen and throbbing from the night before, some guy who decided to have a smart mouth in Tesco when John didn’t move out of his way quickly enough. He had put his scabbed fingers around her arms and looked into her eyes.

“I’m not good here anymore, okay? I just...I can’t. I can’t be here without him. It’s eating me alive.”

She’d cried and said she’d never rent the flat to anyone else. “You’ll always have a home to come back to, John Watson.”

Except, he wasn’t John Watson without Sherlock Holmes.

The cab came to squealing stop outside a grubby looking flat motel, squat and green. The paint was peeling, windows dirty. Cars in the U-shaped car park were old and rusty and abused. There was a homeless person asleep in a blanketed lump on the bus stop bench out front.

Perfect.

“Good enough?”

“Yeah. Ta.” John threw a wad of cash at him, not bothering to ask how much he actually owed. “The boot?”

This time the guy smiled, and John nearly smiled back, anger slipping for just a moment. John Watson surfaced now and again, leaving him scrabbling inside himself, searching, wondering how emotionally dead a person really had to be to lose themselves completely.

“Yeah, the boot.” The cabbie said good naturedly, and John was actually glad he hadn’t beaten the shit out of him.

He wrenched his bags out, catching one on the lock as he pulled. It jerked free and something metallic and heavy came tumbling to the pavement. He closed the boot, and as the cabbie drove away, he crouched down and picked it up. He almost fell over, vomit rising in his throat, when he saw what it was. Sherlock’s watch. Jesus. Fuck, he didn’t even know how that had gotten in there. He thought he’d put it safely in the skull at Baker Street, to be there if he ever could go home.

He didn’t want a piece of Sherlock with him. Not here, during his exile.

His hand flew to cover his mouth as his chest heaved. All he could hear was the crunch of his shoes grinding into the broken pavement, and his own ragged breaths. The watch laid in his hand, accusatory and heavy.

Of course, it was broken. Stopped the moment it hit the ground. The glass cracked but intact, the time clearly visible. 8:13am. So John could see for the rest of his life the exact moment that he failed to save the only person he ever really loved. Tangible guilt.

A tear slipped out and he snuffled, sick at himself for letting the damn thing have such an effect on him. He stuffed it away in his pocket and stood up. His mobile chimed again and he pulled it out as he wiped his face with the back of his hand.

 

> You landed yet?  
>  You should have landed 10 minutes ago.  
>  Text me.

So. This was going to start right away. That’s fine. He didn’t need to time to adjust.

He texted back quickly, before putting his phone away again.

 

> Yeah. At a motel. I need to shower, then I’ll be ready. Just tell me when and where.

At check in, he gave a fake name. Thank god for motels that took cash and didn’t ask questions.

As he stood in the shower twenty minutes later, steam rising off his back, Sherlock’s voice rang out his mind, deep and rumbling, “John, do you know how many different types of bacteria and fungi are present in a hotel shower stall?”

“Shut up, you git.” He said aloud. “You’re dead. Stop trying to piss me off from the grave.”

After he was dried off and dressed, he cracked a window, and laid back on bed. Lit a cigarette and pulled out his mobile.

Denny’s on Route 47. I’ll be in the back. Noon.

Criminals in London operated at night. Not noon, not in the grotesque glare of the day. Americans did everything wrong.

Noon was three hours away. He pulled on his cigarette, sharp burning filling him up. He’d never smoked before Sherlock died. Never once.

He’d been sitting in his chair the first time. He’d been there for two days. Gotten up to piss a few times, that was it. Hadn’t slept. Hadn’t eaten. Just staring at Sherlock’s empty chair across from him, the crushing suffocation of grief filling up every cell in his body. He couldn’t stop thinking about all the things he’d said wrong, all the things he’d never said at all. He’d caught the edge of the slipper out of the corner of his eye, silk shining a bit against the grimy hearth.

_I want some John. Get me some._   
_Cold turkey, we agreed. No matter what._   
_Tell me where they are. Please tell me. Please, John._

He had picked up the slipper, still stuffed with cigarettes. He’d rolled it in his hands for a while, smelled them unlit. His body had a visceral reaction to the smell of them, as if he’d just tucked his nose under Sherlock’s jaw. He felt calmer, less constricted with misery, just smelling them.

The smell of Sherlock’s hair after he’s smoked one, thinking John wouldn’t know. Even at a distance, passing behind him as he made a cup of tea or sat at some experiment, John could smell his shampoo mixed with that tobacco smell, and he would shake his head and laugh to himself. Silly Sherlock. Quirky, funny, ridiculous Sherlock. Clever, infuriating Sherlock. Dead Sherlock.

He’d lit one. Smoked it. Lit another.

That was it. From that moment, he smoked. He was dead inside anyway. Lung cancer didn’t really phase him. Smoking didn’t just remind him of Sherlock. It was becoming Sherlock, it was putting something dark and dangerous inside himself that he’d never permitted before. It was crossing a line John Watson wouldn’t have. It was allowing Sherlock to own a piece of him that he’d kept from him in life. He couldn’t stop.

Fuck, three hours. He did not want to sit here for three hours and wallow in memories.

This was the sort of motel you could ask questions and no one would care what you did with the answers. He threw on his jacket and went to the front desk.

“Help you with something?” The manager was a gigantic woman, barely able to turn around between the counter and the wall, greasy hair pulled back in a tight bun, crisp crumbs on her shirt. He really couldn’t give a fuck what she thought.

“Yeah. I’m, uh, wondering where I could find a ‘friend’ for a few hours.” He cleared his throat and refused to look away.

Her eyes narrowed for just a second, and then she said, “Yeah, there’s a place right about three blocks away. Real nice girls in there. Clean.”

John swallowed and tilted his head, looking at her with what he knew was a predatory smile. She actually blushed. Well, he was still attractive on the outside, even if the inside was desiccated and foul. “I’m not interested in girls.”

***

Fingers clenched in damp sweaty curls, John slammed his hips forward as hard as he could. “Oh, fuck, fuck...shit, that’s so good.”

The body beneath him squirmed and moaned, back bending. He slid his hand up the curve of spine. Not skinny enough, really, to be perfect, but close enough. The hair was right. That was always the most important detail. If the hair was wrong - straight, or not black enough - he just wasn’t interested.

This hair was exactly right. Curly and black as sin, and fisted in his fingers as he yanked the man’s head back and thrust into him.

It was nothing like it would have been with Sherlock. It never was. With Sherlock it would have been soft petting, and lips brushed lovingly together, Sherlock sighing into his mouth as John whispered ‘I love you.’ It would have been desperate and intense, them up against the wall in the hallway, fumbling at each other’s belts and laughing, clutching their hands together as they came. It would have been Sherlock’s face against John’s jeans, smiling up at him with heavy lidded eyes, saying “Come on, John, come to bed.” It would have been beautiful.

They’d never gotten the chance. Moriarty ripped it away from them.

He’d wandered into some seedy street one night, months ago, accidentally. He wasn’t looking for it. But there was a man, young, looked so much like Sherlock that it hurt. Not nearly as breathtaking, but gorgeous nonetheless. Curly hair, high cheekbones, pale skin. A close enough approximation that John’s breath caught painfully in his throat.

The man had seen him staring, and sauntered over. “Interested?”

John had stammered. He didn’t even realise at first exactly what the guy was talking about. As he watched him wiggle suggestively in front of him, he realised...and then the idea crystallised in his mind. He could. No one would know. He could take this man home, or to some seedy hotel, and pretend. Pretend for a couple blissed out hours that it was Sherlock.

“Yes.” It had rolled off his tongue before he even knew he’d decided anything.

He’d taken him to a hotel and fucked him so hard he had bruises for days. After that, they had a standing arrangement for a couple months, but then the guy disappeared. That’s what drug addicted prostitutes do, generally. John had found others, none as close to resembling Sherlock as the first one, but close enough. One particularly lovely one had hair that was too long to be believable. John had paid him fifty extra quid just to let him cut his hair.

He’d stood there with black curls drifting around his feet, listening to the clack of the scissors, and pretended it was Sherlock.

_My hair’s a mess, John. Will you?_   
_Of course, Sherlock. Come on, then._   
_You take care of me, John._   
_Of course I do. I love you._

He’d almost cried, standing there in a filthy hotel loo with a prostitute, thinking of that tender exchange that never happened. Then he’d taken him hard, leaving red welts on his hips from John’s fingernails, and wept silently as he walked home to Baker Street.

There always seemed to be a way to find one. One that looked enough like him that John could forget, for a little while, that this had never happened between him and the real Sherlock.

“Oh fuck, oh god, I’m gonna come, Jesus…” John’s thighs shook, stomach clenching, as he spilled hot into the condom. His hips jerked forward a few more times, fingers gripped tight around the man’s waist, and when he’d caught his breath, he grabbed the base of the condom and held on as he pulled out.

The man flipped over and laid on his back. Looked at John approvingly. “I’ve never done it with someone from England before. I like your accent.”

“Oh, fuck, don’t talk.” As soon as the sex bit was over, he wanted them out. He couldn’t have them curled against him, couldn’t be affectionate. That was for Sherlock. Only for Sherlock. That kind of tenderness was buried so deep, he didn’t even know how to access it anymore, and didn’t want to.

Now this one with his strident Midwestern accent was the worst yet. He looked right enough, but the minute he spoke...John couldn’t bear him one more second.

“Get out. Take your money and go.” John pulled the condom off, tied it up. “Go on.”

The man looked disappointed, but didn’t argue. He pulled his clothes back on and picked up the filthy rucksack that John had made him leave on the floor, far away from any of John’s belongings. “Well, cutie, you know where to find me. I’m up for round two whenever.”

“Yeah, alright. Maybe tomorrow night. Don’t wander.” He had been a good shag. Actually got hard and let John get him off. Some of them didn’t. John did like to make them come. He could pretend it was Sherlock, writhing and shivering underneath him. Just as long as this one kept his mouth shut.

“I won’t.” He swayed his hips, brushed his hand over John’s bare stomach. “You’re sexy. I like you.”

Clenching his hand so tight he was afraid of drawing blood, he closed his eyes. You can’t beat the shit out of the guy today and fuck him tomorrow, John. Well, at least, it severely lowered his chances.

“Good. Great. Just, get out. I have shit to do.” He waited until the door was shut, and he went and locked it. It wouldn’t do to have some dumb fuck hooker stealing his shit, possibly fucking up this whole enterprise.

Back in the shower. Washed the disgust with himself down the drain. He leaned his arm against the shower stall, rested his forehead against it. The real Sherlock barraged him, the sound of his laughter, the glint in his eye at a crime scene, the smell of his dressing gown over John’s shoulders - ‘You’re cold, John, here.’ - how he wished he could delete him sometimes, the way Sherlock did with extraneous data. Except Sherlock wasn’t extraneous, could never be.

The tears started to come, and this time John let them. He usually had to after fucking the hell out of some guy who wasn’t Sherlock. It was when he felt, just for the length of the shower, like himself. Like a decent human being who could love someone. A sob wrenched out of his throat, and he said aloud, “I’m sorry, Sherlock. Fuck. I am so sorry. I just miss you so fucking badly. I don’t know how to stop.”

By the time he was out of the shower, he’d cried himself hoarse, and pushed Sherlock far enough back in his mind that he could function again. It was 11:18. He’d Googled the Denny’s where he was supposed to meet his contact, and he had about 10 minutes to dress and go. He threw on a pair of jeans and a tight black tee shirt, grey corduroy jacket, black and grey wingtips. Rubbed gel into his hair and drew it up in loose spikes.

He shoved his wallet and phone in his pockets, and opened the door. Sunlight sliced through the dim room, dust and god only knew what else floating through the air. The light fell on his dirty trousers draped over a chair. The lump in the pocket.

He dug his teeth into his lip, fighting with himself. He hadn’t even meant to bring the fucking thing to this country, but now, with it here… He crossed the room in two strides and pulled it out of the trouser pocket, fastened it around his wrist. He’d never done that before, put it on.

There it was. Cracked face, frozen hands, scraped metal. The evidence of his sins, all his failures, everything he used to be. A reminder of why he didn’t deserve to be John Watson anymore. John Watson didn’t let people down, he didn’t let Sherlock down. There it was against his skin, too tight because his wrist was thicker than Sherlock’s had been. It hurt, pinched his skin. Good. Pain was good.

He pulled the door shut and made sure it was locked. Lit a cigarette, shielding it from the wind with a curved hand, and took a deep drag. Okay. Play time was over.

Time to get to work.

He walked into the check in desk. The obese woman was still there, squatting on a plastic stool, some godawful talk show squawking away from a filthy little tube television. She turned briefly and looked away, before realising it was him again. She turned slowly.

“What you need now, honey?” A loathsome smile spread across her face, revealing crooked stained teeth.

He’d paid her fairly handsomely for her information before. She was inclined to be pleasant.

“Just a cab.” He didn’t even like to say the word. He could hear in his memory a thousand different iterations of Sherlock saying it.

“Well, that’s easy enough.” She picked up the receiver of an old corded phone and dialed.

“Ta. I’ll go wait outside.” John drew on his cigarette, ambled out the door. The neighborhood was nothing but cracked sidewalks, weeds erupting from every split, boarded up windows, and neglect. It was a place to disappear.

Which was exactly what he intended to do.


	2. Mother Bird

**_Sherlock_ **

 

_The bird has fallen from the nest. M_

_What? S_

_Oh, you never were any good at metaphor. The good doctor has left the country. M_

_What the hell do you mean? S_

_I mean, he has left, as in gone. Doesn’t live here anymore. M_

_Where is he? S_

_I’ve absolutely no idea. M_

_YOU FIND HIM. S_

_I’ll do my best. M_

_You’ll do better than your best. S_

_He’s a very broken man, you know. He’s not the same person you left. M_

_I don’t care. I DON’T CARE. You find him. S_

_How is the mission coming along? M_

_Just fine. Latest target is well in hand. You find him, goddammit. I don’t care what it takes. S_

_Just make sure you delete this conversation. M_

_I’m not an idiot. S_

_So you’ve said. M_

_Keep me updated. S_

_I shall. M_

_If anything happens to him, I’ll hold you responsible. S_

_I’ve no doubt. M_


	3. The Only Thing That Matters is the Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets his contact, gets paid, and is ready to get started on this new life and try to leave Sherlock behind.

_**John** _

The Denny’s was set in the rear of a wide flat strip mall. Parking lot mostly empty, with just a smattering of cars. Mounds of filthy snow were piled in the corners of the lot, black and grey, melting in mucky rivulets. Fuck, but this place was bleak.

John had the cabbie drop him off at the far edge of the lot, and watched the car receding before he tapped a cigarette out of the pack and strode toward the diner.

He didn’t know what his contact looked like. No bother. The contact should know what he looked like.

The wind whipped up stronger, blowing right through the corduroy jacket and thin tee shirt. He shivered a little and turned his collar up around his neck.

 _Oh, please. Can we not do this, this time?_  
_Do what?_  
_You being all mysterious, with your cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you look cool._  
_I don’t do that._  
_Yeah, you do._

John wiped at his eyes and took a long deep drag from the cigarette. He was at the door. The diner was run down, almost looked vacant. Through grimy plexiglass, he could make out a few strays, choking down greasy eggs and rashers too thick to be chewed properly. He wrenched open the door, hit in the face with the sickly smell of maple syrup and burnt coffee.

A pencil thin woman with a messy blonde ponytail approached him, cradling sticky menus in her arms. “Hey, sugar. Table for one?”

John immediately allowed his charming face to take over, all sweet smile and sparkling baby blues. It was shocking, how easily people were taken in by a pretty face. Rationalisation was easier when people were generally so bloody stupid.

“Yes, thank you. Mind if I sit in the back?”

“Sit anywhere ya like. What’s that accent? Where’re you from?” She waved at him to follow her, hips sashaying purposefully, and tossed him a flirtatious smile over her shoulder.

“London.” Even the word lay thick and painful on his tongue.

“S’nice. Here y’re, sweetheart.” She slapped a menu down on the table and smiled at him as he slid past her into the booth. “Coffee?”

“Ta, yeah.” Deep breath in. It was always such a struggle to keep the anger from bubbling out. Some people deserved it. This waitress didn’t. Try and act like a human being, John. Just, at least occasionally.

She winked. “Be right back with that, sugar.”

The other diners were almost exclusively elderly couples. Their weekly outing on a pensioner’s budget, a cheap dirty chain diner. It was pathetic. John let his eyes sweep over every table, looking for the person that stood out. Instead, his eyes fell on two older men sipping coffee, with a checkers board on the table between them. Grey hair, balding, glasses tipped at the ends of their noses. One jumped his checker across the board and called out, “King me.” The other man smiled affectionately and did so. Their hands brushed. John’s stomach lurched.

Was the whole fucking world out to torment him? It felt that way, god it did.

Before he could tear his eyes away from them, a tall, painfully thin man with dark sunglasses and a spindly mustache slid comfortably into the bench across the table and folded his hands on top of it. He nodded at John. “Hello.”

Nondescript accent. Could be from almost anywhere in the states. No one sounds like that naturally, everyone has a telling accent if you know how to listen. This man’s had been trained away. Interesting.

John tilted his head, narrowed his eyes. One side of his mouth ticked up. “Do we know each other?”

“I think we will. Dr Watson.” He had a strange haircut. Blunt and square. It almost looked as if he did it himself.

John licked his lips and nodded. “Ah. Okay. We’re using names now. Because I don’t know yours.”

“And you won’t get it here.” He smiled with a lot of very blunt teeth, oddly similar in shape to his haircut.

“Alright. When will I? I do like to know who I’m working for.” John grimaced through another memory shooting through his mind with all the pain of a blood vessel bursting.

_Mycroft, I don’t do anonymous clients. I’m used to mystery at one end of my cases. Both ends is too much work. Good morning._   
_Get off my sheet!_

“And you will. In due time.” The man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a brown envelope, thick with what was surely cash. “Hopefully this will be enough incentive to retain your services for the time being.”

John slid it under the table and thumbed it open. The bills were hundreds. Well. More money than he'd ever seen, even before, when he and Sherlock were working cases. He went for his poker face, tried not to look stunned. It went into his jacket pocket as the waitress reappeared with a coffee mug and a handful of prepackaged creamers.

“Oh, you got a friend now, honey.” She set the coffee down, sloshing a few drops onto the table, and tipped the creamers into John’s hand, brushing her thumb over his lightly. She turned to the other man, a smile still stretched across her plain features. “And what can I get you?”

“Same, thank you.” His eyes never left John.

“Be right back.”

“She likes you.” The man’s thick eyebrow arched at him.

“I’d noticed.”

“I bet lots of people like you. You’re a handsome man.”

“Thank you.”

“Can you cover that accent if you have to?”

“I’ve never tried.”

“That might be a problem.”

“It won’t be.”

“People will remember an English accent.”

“They won’t.”

“Oh really?”

“I’ll give them every reason not to. You won’t have to worry about it.”

During this whole rapid fire exchange, John’s eyes never left the man’s face. Nor did the man break eye contact with John. There lived behind this man’s calm brown eyes a menace that was all too familiar. This man would do someone harm without batting an eye, without remorse, and he would do it well. This was a man who would eviscerate someone without breaking a sweat. He would melt into the background, a face no one would remember, if he wanted to. Far from making John nervous, there was a burgeoning respect for a man who was bristling with danger, but only if someone knew how to look for it. It was the kind of man John had become.

The waitress reappeared bearing another coffee, and thumped it down in front of the man, but her eyes were on John. “Get you boys somethin’ to eat? We got a real nice omelet with ham -”

“That sounds nice. We’ll take two.” The man smiled up at her as sweetly as a hungry crocodile, but she didn’t notice.

“Alrighty then. Be right back with those.” She gave John a big grin, fluttered her lashes a few times and sashayed away.

They fell silent until she was far out of earshot.

The man leaned forward a little, spindly forearms resting on the table. His eyes were intense. “We’re not going to discuss this further here. You’ll pick up a package in the post office in Fargo, addressed only to Fargo, Minnesota. Be there by tomorrow afternoon. The package will contain all the information you need on your assignment.”

“Right.” John glugged his coffee down. “Are we done, then?”

“Not just yet.” The man leaned back and folded his hands in his lap. “I’ve done some research on you, Captain John H. Watson.”

It was a punch to the gut, a blooming ache through his stomach and chest, to hear that name. Another person. Another life. A life spent trying to do things right, and do the right things. Pressed uniforms and laughter in windswept tents filled with sand, heavy guns rested on sunburned shoulders. Blood and death in the name of Queen and country.

It was all blood and death in the end.

_Let me come through, please. He’s my friend. He’s my friend, please._

Oh, fuck. Not now.

He swallowed down the bile in his throat, though the dark blood against the grey sidewalk and the blank aquamarine eyes were inescapable. The image was lodged forever just behind his peripheral vision, barely out of sight. “Oh, yeah? And what did your research tell you about me?”

“That you were an exemplary soldier. A good doctor. All the things people expect to be when they’re children who don’t yet understand the darkness of the world. So what was it, Doctor?” The man’s lips split in a wide smile that didn’t reach the rest of his face.

“What was what?” John’s throat was dry. He looked down at the table, thick plastic with flecks of gold scattered through it. The surface was rough from years of steady use and waitresses who didn’t care about scratched tables when they were making minimum wage in a dive like this. A few pieces of gold paper were half exposed, sticking up out of the scarred plastic. John fought an urge to pick at them like pulling off a scab.

“What showed you the darkness?” The man’s voice was curious, unthreatening, at odds with his words and what John knew was his business.

John stared at him a long moment. Talking about Sherlock was impossible. He couldn’t say his name, and wouldn’t ever dare to utter it in front of a man like this. Sherlock’s name was a benediction. Only worthy people deserved to hear it, and John wasn’t even one of the worthy any more.

“Have you ever lost someone important to you? Someone you never expected to lose? Someone that made your life mean something, made all this stupid shit worth suffering through, just so you could see their face at the end of the day? Someone that just reading the paper with them or having a cup of coffee with them...made the pain go away for a while?”

The man’s eyebrow raised up slowly and he pursed his lips, thinking. “Can’t say I’ve ever had anyone like that to begin with.”

“Well, I did. And I don’t now.” The anger was coming. The kind he wouldn’t be able to control. It rolled up through his chest, a wave crashing hard against the back of his ribcage, making it hard to breathe.

The man’s mouth ticked up at the edge. His eyes were alight with amusement. “Alright, tiger. Settle down. I was just curious.”

“We done?” John’s back teeth ground together. It was important not to lose his temper in front of this man. If he did, the whole job could be blown.

“For now. Don’t miss that package.” The man slid smoothly out of the bench seat. “I’ll be in touch.”

John watched him go, striding methodically out of the diner. He was the kind of man who was never in a hurry. The kind of man who wouldn’t shake committing the most vile murder, would never fear the police showing up.

Yes, he was the kind of man John was becoming.

***

He’d learned to drive. He knew the transit system in America was shite, and with what he was going to be doing, he knew it was critical to be able to drive. Fast.

“S’real nice car, mister. Kind of old, yeah, but runs good, not much mileage. Belonged to an old lady.” The salesman was as beige as the car lot he ran. Everything was beige here. The piles of half melted snow slipping lazily off of awnings and down gutters, the cracked sidewalks clotted with detritus, the people. The people were the most beige of all, no life in them at all.

Living amongst people that were already dead was a balm. John’s emptiness wasn’t so glaring.

Still better than London. London ran thick with blood. Red and black, chunks of brain matter sprayed against the grey wall of St. Bart’s.

“Is it fast? Reliable? I’ll be driving a lot, I need reliable.” Grey 2000 Buick LeSabre, V6 engine. Purred like a cougar when John turned the ignition.

 _Oh, John, I envy you so much._  
_You envy me?_  
_Your mind: it’s so placid, straightforward, barely used. Mine’s like an engine, racing out of control, a rocket tearing itself to pieces trapped on the launch pad._

Stop, Sherlock. Just stop. These conversations embedded in John’s frontal lobe, surging up when he least expected it. They nearly whited out his vision, the memory of Sherlock was so strong, the sound of his voice so clear.

He swallowed hard, sniffed.

“Sure is. Now...uh, I hate to ask, since you’re paying in cash, and I hate to lose a sale, but uh...you got an American driver’s license, doncha, mister? I’m not supposed to sell to anyone who doesn’t, you know? Cause…” The man twisted his chubby fingers together, peered nervously at John through greasy thick glasses.

“Sure. Course I do.” John smiled his most innocent smile, making sure those blue eyes were twinkling, and pulled out his wallet. After the man had left, John had sat in the diner, chewing his rubbery omelet, and counted the money in the envelope. Tucked in with the most cash he’d ever held in his hands in his entire life was a Wisconsin driver’s license with his picture, in the name of John Winston. He supposed the first name was kept so John wouldn’t forget his own name.

The man didn’t have faith in him yet. He soon would.  
“Alright, Mr Winston. I just need to, uh, make a copy of this, and we’ll sign some papers, and you can drive her right off the lot.”

“Sure thing. I’ll just wait out here until you have all that ready.” He was itching to smoke, and he had a phone call to make.

“I won’t be but a jiffy.” He smiled and half bowed at John and shuffled back towards to little manky trailer squatted in the middle of the car lot.

John watched him until the door of the trailer swung closed, and then shut the door of the Buick, rolled the window down, and took out his cigarettes. He pulled one out with his lips and lit it with the cigarette lighter from the dash, the smell of burning electrical coil reminding him powerfully of the consistently strange smells emanating from the kitchen of 221B.

Time to make his call.

He dialed, dragged on his cigarette hard, and blew the smoke out the open window.

“Hello?”

His heart caught in his throat at the sound of that voice, though it had only been a few weeks since he’d heard it. It reminded him of everything good and gone in his life, everything that had ever meant anything. Sherlock’s watch was heavy and tight on his wrist.

“Hi, Mrs Hudson. It’s John.”

***

The Buick was fast. John nearly drove it straight across the median strip pulling it out of the lot, as quickly as it responded when he depressed the gas pedal. Driving didn’t come naturally to him. He had to concentrate.

Sherlock used to tease him about it. Nothing unkind, just needled him for being able to carry a gun, perform surgery on a broken heart valve, and not know the gas pedal from the brake. Sherlock didn’t drive much himself, but he did it well, just like everything. “John it’s easy. It’s just mechanics. You’re a doctor, for god’s sake. If you can maneuver the mechanics of the human body, a car would be nothing to you.”

That familiar lump swelled in his throat. Sherlock, why won’t you go away? It’s been over a year. Why can’t I just...let you go?

He fiddled with the Sherlock’s watch, thumbing over the crack. He wished it would slice his thumb open, make him bleed. He was fascinated by blood, guessed he always had been a bit, being a doctor. Doctors had to be a little blood hungry, or the job would be unbearable. But it was deeper now, transformed. He would get mesmerised by the blood on his hands after he beat someone; the split skin, the cracks at the edges of scrapes from missing skull and hitting brick instead, how it dried in brown streams down his wrists. How it dried in the creases of his knuckles and didn’t come out for days.

He wondered how Sherlock’s blood looked when it dried. Whether it was thick and sticky like a toffee pudding or whether it was powdery, blowing away in the wind, spreading Sherlock’s DNA all over Smithfield. There was a stain there, still. He made himself walk past it at least once a week. Once, at night, when there’d been no one to report a strange man lingering in the street, he’d actually laid down beside it. Laid his cheek against the edge, the pavement digging into his bad shoulder, and imagined he could smell Sherlock there. Thought about darting his tongue out to touch it, to taste what was left of Sherlock in the world.

Another life. Another person.

He pulled up to the kerb where he’d picked up Mr Strident that morning. There he was, surrounded by a gaggle of his compatriots. All tight filthy jeans and spiked hair, fat gold chains around their necks. When John’s car pulled up, they all turned as a unit. Someone elbowed Mr Strident, and grinned.

“Is that him?” More twangy unpleasant syllables. Everyone sounded ugly and hard here. No soft London vowels, all the words rounded and lyrical. God, he’d even give anything to hear an East End drawl.

“Yeah…..it is. Hey, cutie.” He slithered over to the car and leaned in the passenger window. God, but he did look so much like Sherlock. The same cheekbones, not quite as visible as Sherlock’s, but the same. His eyes were the translucent blue that Sherlock’s were only in the morning, the colour John saw across the table when they were reading newspapers and eating soft boiled eggs. The colour John had always been sure he’d see staring at him across a pillow one blissful morning, and he would have whispered, “Well, good morning, sweetheart.”

The morning that never happened, that would never happen.

“Well get the fuck in, don’t just stand there like a twat.” John had no patience for sitting here being gawked at by these chavvy hookers.

“Alright, cutie, I’m comin’, I’m comin’.” He slid in and right up to John, looping an arm around his shoulders. “Knew you’d be back.”

“Oh, get the fuck off me.” John gave him a hard shove in the ribs, bit back the urge to punch him bloody. “I’m not your fucking boyfriend.”

“Sorry, sorry.” He withdrew immediately, conditioned to submit the moment anyone showed real distain. The old John would have pitied him, offered him a cuppa, tried to help.

This John didn’t feel a thing except relief when he moved away.

***

This time he let him stay. They reclined on the bed, sheet pulled up over their waists. John gave him a cigarette.

John could feel his eyes on him. He turned, already exasperated, and blew smoke in his face. “What are you staring at?”

He shrugged, a half smile on his face. “I just don’t get it.”

“Sorry, get what?” There was one dark damp curl hanging down on his forehead. John wanted to reach out and play with it, just to feel the smooth hair shafts twisting around his skin. He didn’t.

“You’re so good looking, and sexy, and...ENGLISH. You’re amazing in bed...I mean, you could get anybody. You don’t have to pay for it.” Embarrassment crept up on his face. He turned red and shifted his eyes away. Ridiculous, considering what they’d just done, to be embarrassed now.

John was actually a little charmed. He fought to keep a smile off his face.

“Well. Ta. But, I’m looking for something very...specific. I don’t want just anyone.”

“Oh.” Confusion pushed the embarrassment to the side. “You want...me? Specifically?”

“In a manner of speaking.” He locked eyes with the man, and saw empathy there. From another person who’d had a shitty life.

He was having a more intimate moment with this prostitute than he’d ever had with Sherlock; their legs brushing under the sheet, talking softly across sweaty pillows, sharing a smoke. It was so wrong, so desperately wrong. I’m betraying him. I am. And I can’t stop. I love you still, and I can’t stop this.

There were tears pricking at his eyes. Shit shit shit.

“You okay?” God, this was the last thing he needed.

“Just finish your fucking cigarette and get out. We’re not going to be friends here, alright?” John stubbed his own out in the disposable aluminium ashtray on the bedside table and flipped over, turning his back on him.

“I know that. I just...you know...sometimes it’s nice to talk to people. Even if they’re not your friends.”

Getting fucking counseling from a hooker. This was a new low, even for John.

“Yeah, well. I’m not much of a person anymore, and neither are you.” John couldn’t stand him one more second. He had to get up early and drive to fucking Fargo, which was a four hour drive.

Then the real job began.

He’d never see this man again in his life. However long his life was going to be. John didn’t even know his name. He could use his mind the way he used his body, pour himself into him without remorse or pity. Get it all out. Say it. With no repercussions, no pity in the eyes of people who still somehow managed to care about him.

He was tempted. For just one black, frightening moment, but no. He could never talk about Sherlock with anyone, not even Greg. Not even Mrs Hudson. Sherlock was his. His guilt to carry, his failure, all the unspoken words and missed opportunities that had burned through the man who’d been John Watson and left this carcass in his place.

John remained silent, flipped out the bedside lamp.

“Well. I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for.” The bed creaked, depressed. There was the sound of rustling jeans and shoes being pulled on. “You’re too sexy and smart to be so sad.”

If he said one more kind thing, John was going to beat him until his pretty nose snapped under John’s fists.

Through gritted teeth, “Just.get.out.”

“Thanks for the smoke.” He seemed to sense John was on the verge of something dangerous, and darted quickly out the door like a mouse, curls bobbing.

John closed his eyes, let his naked body sink into the mattress, exhausted in every way. He needed the work.

He couldn’t wait to get to Fargo.


	4. A Little Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock begins to understand the effect his death has had on John.

_**Sherlock** _

You won’t like it. M

I don’t care. Tell me. S

He’s working for an organised crime syndicate out of Fargo, ND. I don’t know what his role is. M

You’re wrong. S

I’m sorry, brother dear, but I am not. M

You.are.wrong. He would never do that. S

I can send you proof if you like. We have photos. M

Yes. I want to see him. S

Alright. Wait just a moment. M

The photos popped up one by one, a ghost of an image at first, gaining in clarity and colour as it loaded. John. So familiar, so foreign. It had been over a year since he’d looked into that face.

No one could be that clever.  
You could.

A sob rose up in Sherlock’s throat at the sight of John in a grey jumper striding across the parking lot of a run down motel. He was lean, beautiful. His hair so different, in little messy spikes. He was so thin. Thinner than Sherlock had ever seen him. His cheekbones stood out, his square jaw more prominent than ever. Even in these distant photos, those deep blue eyes looked bigger, taking over his face.

He looked so angry. So frighteningly angry.

His entire body was taut with it. This wasn’t the laughing John, sitting back in his chair with his feet glancing off of Sherlock’s ankles as they watched the fire together. This wasn't the John yelling at him with half a smile on his face about thumbs in the fridge, or takeaway containers all over the flat. This wasn’t even the John standing solid and strong with a gun at the end of his arm. The John who was still and reserved in his anger. This wasn’t the soldier.

This John held himself completely differently. There was no softness left in him. His John was always so soft; jumpers and warm tea and the layer of pudge over muscle. This man wasn’t his John. Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from trailing a fingertip over John’s face. He laid back on the cot in the tiny wood shack he was currently calling home, and clutched the phone screen down to his chest. He couldn’t look at this beautiful stranger for one more second.

“What have I done to you, John?” He spoke aloud to the ceiling, rough beams letting a grey sunlight through. He shivered in his thick down parka, truly frightened for the first time since he’d left England. “God, what have I done?”


	5. Just Gonna Get My Feet Wet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets his first assignment.

_**John** _

The four hour drive to Fargo was excruciating. John had never driven a car for such a long stretch before. He had to pull into rest stops and take breaks several times, allow his frayed nerves to settle before he went on. It was snowing, laying thick across the road and the windscreen. It was a wet snow, huge puffy flakes sailing in the open window and melting into his jeans. He smoked incessantly and bit his lips until they bled.

Halfway there, as he peered into the white, trying to make out headlamps through the dense snow, his phone rang. It was an unfamiliar number.

He swiped the phone open, touched the speaker button. “Yeah?”

“Um, is this, Dr Watson?” Whingy voice, timid. Definitely not his contact from yesterday.

He was not going to be able to fucking stand it if all these people kept referring to him as Dr. Watson. “John. It’s fucking John. I’m not a doctor anymore. Who’s this?”

“Um, I was told to call you. Tell you that you should meet him - us - in Bemidji tomorrow afternoon. There’s a bit of a storm brewing here, he said. Change of plans from what’s in your package.” Stuttering little voice. Pathetic. Annoying. The kind of man that had his head held in toilets in grade school, that would still get his nose broken just for being a pussy. It radiated off of him, even over the phone.

“So, don’t pick up the package, then? Because I’m halfway to Fargo, and it’s snowing like fucking hell out here. So if I don’t have to keep driving there, I’d rather not.” A tractor trailer veered towards him, and John overcompensated, skidding onto the shoulder, hitting the warning tracks. He wrenched the steering wheel and the car slid back into the lane, fishtailing. “Fuck! Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Are you okay? Sounds like you had a close call there. Have to be careful driving in snow, you know.” Voice paternal, concerned. Fuck off.

“Thanks, yeah.” John bit back all the insults he wanted to hurl at this right bloody moron on the other end of the phone. He was burning with anger. He hadn’t hit anyone since the dumb fuck from the plane yesterday morning, which felt like weeks ago, and he’d had plenty of temptation that he’d resisted. It was starting to build in him. The need to destroy something, to pound it bloody.

Often, it just had to be himself. He lost count of how many nights he’d disappeared into the alley behind Baker Street and just punched the brick wall until he knew he had hairline fractures in his knuckles, until there was blood splattered all over his clothes. Until he was crying with relief, the pain cracking him open enough that he could feel alive for a few moments.

Now, he wanted to pound this little shit’s face in. But they apparently worked for the same man. So that option was probably off the table.

“Do I pick up the fucking package or not?” He slowed as he approached a toll booth, lit another cigarette with a shaking hand.

“Yes, pick up the package. That will be your...assignment once my…this issue in Bemidji is resolved.” John could almost hear the guy wringing his hands.

“Alright then.” John reached out to drop change into the hand of the surly toll collector, an elderly man made of nothing but wrinkles, saggy skin draped over his bone structure like loose fabric. John nodded tightly at him. “Ta.”

He didn’t respond at all, just raised the gate arm to let John drive through.

Another sad, empty interaction in a world of them. Really, what was the point of trying to be a decent human being? No one noticed anyway. No one recognised humanity in anyone else; they were too busy living out their own tragedies.

“You still there?”

“Yeah. Who’re you anyway? Minion?” John dragged on his cigarette, sipped ice cold coffee. Christ, it was only thirty minutes old. The Buick didn’t have the best heat, however, and it was nearly 10 below zero today. It was cold as a witch’s tit here all the time.

“Ha, minion. No. Just...uh...I don’t know what to call me really. I just know him, and we uh...got into some trouble, together, well, he got me into trouble and then got me out of some trouble...but now it’s...I better tell you when you get here.” John could almost hear the guy squirming.

“Hmm. Alright. I don’t know what or where the fuck Bemidji is, but I’ll find it. Where am I supposed to meet you once I’m there?” He had no real idea what to expect once this started. He’d never done anything like this before. Working for criminals, being one. He didn’t expect to last that long, but of course, that was sort of the point.

He didn’t have the guts to do it himself. He’d proved that. So many nights, perched on the edge of Sherlock’s bed, surrounded by his things, his smell, the memory of him pervading every crack in the floor and fiber in the bedsheets. The gun laying heavy in his hands, tears dripping off his chin and splashing against the metal.

He had tried more than once, with shaking hands, his entire body weak with grief. Pressed against his temple, in his mouth, against his jugular. Right against his heart. He just couldn’t pull the trigger. He could kill other people, but not himself. Coward.

He needed someone to do it for him.

“Uh...there’s a diner. Called Lou’s. It’s kind of where everyone meets in Bemidji. Meet you there. You’re supposed to text him when you get there.”

“Yeah, alright. Is that it?”

“That’s it. Okay, so...goodbye for now.”

Christ, was the guy fucking waving at him? He sounded like he was a kid on Christmas saying goodbye to an uncle he didn’t know well, all discomfort and forced politeness. Except this wasn’t a situation for politeness. This was blood and fear, and silencers in the dark, missing person cases that would never be solved.

John hit end, and placed his phone carefully on the dash. Within 30 seconds, it buzzed again.

Jesus fucking Christ. Was the guy calling him back to make sure he said goodbye?

It was a text. He picked it up and looked at it, nearly swerved right off the road.

_John, I’ve been asked to check on your wellbeing. Please contact me, or I shall be forced in contact you in a more physical way. MH_

He hadn’t talked to Mycroft since a few weeks after Sherlock died. He couldn’t bear it, the glancing resemblances, the expressions both of them made, a similar cadence to their speech patterns; it was a knife to the stomach every time he looked at him.

He pulled over, an ache blossoming through his chest, ran the car half up on a snow bank and yanked it into park. He lit a cigarette and texted back with just one thumb as he pulled hard on the filter. He felt like he was made of ashes, dissolving under his skin.

_Who asked you to check on me? How did you get this number?_

_John. Do you really think I can’t get any phone number I wish? MH_

Fair enough.

_Who asked you? Mrs Hudson?_

_No. Not Mrs Hudson. MH_

_Molly? Greg? Who?_

These names. These friendships with good, kind people. They belonged to a different life, a John Watson he could barely comprehend anymore. Just typing them felt foreign, disrespectful even. He didn’t have a right to them anymore.

_John, there are some things you’re better off not knowing. MH_

_What the fuck does that mean?_

_You’ll know when it’s time. Please don’t do anything I’ll have to clean up later. MH_

_I’m not your responsibility, or your friend._

_Someone else thinks differently. Just be careful and keep in touch. MH_

_Or what?_

_John. You know me. That should be enough explanation. Goodbye for now. MH_

Shit. He laughed ruefully, staring out across an endless field of frozen white, sparkling in the wan sunlight. He was in this god awful place, with people who barely qualified as such, freezing fucking cold all the time, and now Mycroft. Mycroft looking over his shoulder. He’d probably be texting him every day.

He deserved it, the pain. The reminder. He pushed his sleeve up, looked at Sherlock’s watch digging into his skin, leaving raw red marks. His hair shirt. His flagellation. A reminder of his sins.

Mycroft really couldn’t make anything worse.

Unless he tried to save him.

***

Bemidji was the kind of town that appeared in prime time shows from the 1980’s, so quaint that it had to be rotten at its heart. Perfect high street - main street, John thought Americans called it - little homegrown shops, people in puffy parkas and knit hats standing by their cars and chatting, shopping bags dangling from their hands, children slip-sliding on ice patches and laughing.

He slowed the car to a crawl, looking for Lou’s Diner. He spotted it, and pulled into the first parking place he saw. He stepped out of the Buick and lit a cigarette, shook the pack. Almost out again. He was well over a pack a day now. At some point it was going to kill him.

The sidewalk was slick with ice and melting water, the windows of all the shops fogged up, ice crystals forming patterns in the corners. Fuck, but this place was cold. It was no wonder everyone was so miserable. London had damp and fog, but the sunny days were so perfect they seemed fake; the sun reflecting off the river, off the skyscrapers, the breeze blowing fresh and wild through the twisty little streets. The whole city would smell like the sea, like something beautiful.

Another conversation with Sherlock came crashing through his subconscious, the pain of Sherlock’s voice so real, it felt like an aneurysm bursting in his brain.

_It smells like stained glass._

_What?_

_The air. It smells like stained glass._

_What do mean, Sherlock? That doesn’t even make sense._

Sherlock’s wounded eyes had turned on him, grey and golden and lovely, making John feel horrible for having said that.

_I didn’t mean that, Sherlock. I just...I don’t know what you mean._

_It smells like colours. And metal. And something old and beautiful. Like stained glass._

_Well. That’s nice, that’s a nice metaphor._

_Let’s go to church, John._

He’d laughed, long and unbelieving, and when Sherlock was still watching him, without the trace of a smile, he got his jacket and they went to church. Sherlock had sat there, silent, hands folded in his lap, his head turning like an owl, taking it all in. John just watched Sherlock; nothing in the church was as wondrous as the profile of that face in the dim wavering light.

He swallowed down the memory with a lungful of smoke.

As he tossed the cigarette down to the kerb, he saw the contact from the other day sitting in the diner with a mousey blonde haired guy. Must have been the guy on the phone.

A bell jingled merrily as he opened the door. This place was the opposite of the dreary Denny’s in Minneapolis. It was clean and warm and friendly, the kind of place people grew up in, made memories in. He thought immediately of Angelo’s, him wolfing down pasta, Sherlock watching him bemusedly, their knees bumping under the table.

He slipped into the booth beside the blonde guy, because he needed to have the barrier of the table between himself and the contact whose name he still didn’t know.

“Hello again.” The contact nodded at him.

“Hi.” The little guy actually waved at him. Waved. They were sitting next to each other, and he was waving hello. Jesus fucking Christ.

“So what’s the job? What changed?” John had no patience for niceties. He was aching with exhaustion, with sadness, he was homesick. As much as he hated London, it was the only city he’d ever lived in, discounting his time in the Army. He missed the smells, the street signs, the blue plaques. He missed the queues, he missed crowded tube trains, he missed tourists clogging up the crosswalks. He missed the horrible fishy smell coming off the river on humid days. He missed Baker Street. He felt like a refugee, as much as he’d wanted to leave London.

He hurt, from his skin to his bones, he ached with the pain of just being alive. He had no time to be polite.

“Well. This one’s gotten himself into a spell of trouble, and while I’d love to help, I have my own business to attend to. You’re going to stay here and get him out of his trouble, until it’s done. I have to leave. Lester here will explain everything to you. Can you handle that, Lester?” He looked at the smaller man like he was a mentally challenged child.

He swallowed, wilting under the steady gaze. “Yes. I can handle that, Lorne.”

The man startled a little, and John turned to him, a slow crooked smile crinkling the right side of his face. “Lorne. Got a last name?”

“Malvo.” Lorne looked murderous, eyes lit with a cold blue fire, fixed on Lester.

“I didn’t mean to...oh Lorne, I didn’t mean to say your…” He looked back and forth from John to Lorne, like a child watching his parents fighting about something that he’d done.

“It’s fine. I’m leaving now. I’ll be in touch.” He nodded at John and without another glance at either of them, slipped out of the booth and out the front door.

John waited until he was out of sight, and moved around the other side of the table. The vinyl seat was still warm where Lorne had been sitting. He took in his companion, his charge. The person who’s mess he apparently had to clean up.

He was tiny. So tiny. John was short, but not like this guy. He could practically slide through the cracks in the floor. Everything about him quivered with nervousness, with some kind of deeply embedded lack of confidence in himself. He could barely hold John’s eye, kept dropping his gaze to his lap. What could this little pussy possibly have done?

A tall thin man in an apron came to the table, hands on hips. “Hi there, Lester.”

“Oh, hello.” Lester waved again, and John suddenly felt powerfully sorry for him, just for a moment. He was absolutely pathetic. Worse than Molly when he’d first met her.

“And what can I get you both?” He turned a curious smile on John. A smile he recognised. It was Greg’s when he was interrogating someone. This guy was a cop, or had been. Tread carefully, John.

“Burger, chips, and a Coke, thanks.” His twinkly charm wouldn’t work on a cop. Just keep it low key.

“Sure thing. Lester?”

“Oh, same, thanks.” He ducked his head, avoided making eye contact.

“Alright. I’ll be right back with that, boys.” He gave them a tight smile and limped away. Injured. Ex-cop, then. Had the option for a desk job and couldn’t stand it.

_I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly, I’m afraid._

Shut up Sherlock. Please.

“So. Lester. Here’s the deal. We’re gonna eat lunch. Then I’m going to leave, five minutes before you. I’m going to go sit in my car, and wait until you come out. I’ll follow you to your house, and we’re going to check it over for bugs and cameras before we say one goddamned word, yeah?”

Lester laughed, raspy and quavering. “Bugs? Cameras? Who would do that? This isn’t...I’m not in a spy movie.”

“You don’t need to be in a spy movie to have your house monitored.” John locked eyes with him. “And I’m not having you say a fucking word about what this is all about until we’re sure, yeah?”

He swallowed. “Yeah. I mean, aw, geez, alright. But we’re not gonna to find nothin.”

“Maybe not. But I won’t help you until we’ve done it.”

Lester cleared his throat. “Yes, sir.”

John cringed. He didn’t deserve that kind of respect. From anyone. “Just, John. Alright? No sir, none of that shit.”

The burgers came, and they ate in silence, Lester sneaking shy glances up at John as they chewed. John paid for the meal and left. As he was walking back to the car, his phone buzzed. Blocked number. What the hell was Mycroft doing, using every phone in the British government?

He opened the text.

_Be careful, John. I’m on my way, but you have to give me time._

He swallowed hard, and looked around, more than half expecting to see someone lurking round the corner of a building, watching him. A deep unsettled feeling washed over him. This wasn’t Mycroft. His blood ran cold.

_Who is this?_

The reply came immediately.

_Someone who cares about you. Please don’t do anything profoundly idiotic._

It could not be. It could NOT be. Someone was playing with him. Mocking him. Lorne? No. While that certainly seemed like his style, he had no reason to be playing with John.

_Who the fuck is this? This isn’t funny._

_I don’t mean it to be. Be careful. I’ll see you soon._

_Who the FUCK IS THIS?_

_Order fries next time, not chips. You don’t even like crisps._

_WHO THE FUCK IS THIS? ARE YOU WATCHING ME?_

They didn’t answer. John lit a cigarette, his hands shaking so badly he almost dropped it into the snow. It could not be. You don’t even like crisps.

Sherlock trying to be kind, make up for a fight they’d had over something ridiculous, going and doing the shopping. He had come home with bags of candy and crisps, bananas and tea. Nothing to make a meal with, nothing of substance. John had laughed and laughed, and eventually Sherlock’s expression had shifted from hurt and insulted into amused. Then he laughed, too, his eyes crinkling up in the way that made John’s stomach flutter.

“Christ, Sherlock. I don’t even like crisps.” John had muttered, wiping his eyes.

Someone else’s life. Now he was being tormented with memories of it, as if he didn’t do a good enough job of it himself. Shit, it had been five minutes. Lester was walking out of the diner. John skidded on the ice, trying to get quickly into car, fumbled the keys and they slipped under the car.

“Motherfucker.” He sprawled on his chest on the freezing ground and felt under the car for the keys. His hand brushed something that felt out of place, and he tilted his head to try and get a look at it. A small black box. A GPS trace. Someone was tracking him.

What the fuck was going on here?

He sat on the pavement, head against the door. He couldn’t remove it. He had to leave it there, so whoever it was wouldn’t suspect that he knew. God, what had he gotten himself into?

***

John and Lester combed the house within an inch of its life. There was nothing. Nothing except a giant black bloodstain on the sitting room floor and another one in the basement, both of which made John shiver and choke back bile. Laying on the pavement. His shoulder aching, running his finger over where Sherlock had died. Wishing he’d died too. Of course, he had, mostly.

After they’d combed the house, Lester put on a pot of coffee. They sat across the kitchen table from each other, hands wrapped around warm mugs. Lester had stuttered, stumbled, haltingly spitting out his story.

Lester Nygaard had killed his wife. With a hammer.

John couldn’t comprehend it. He tried to imagine being so angry at Sherlock that he would have hurt him, and he just couldn’t. There was never a moment, never, when he would have wanted to cause Sherlock harm like that. He would have done anything in the world to keep him from it, in fact. Though, in the end, it hadn’t mattered.

Both Sherlock and Pearl Nygaard had ended up with bashed in skulls, bleeding out onto concrete, brain matter spattered around them. Both at the hands of the men who loved them, had sworn to keep them safe. John was no less at fault than Lester.

John couldn’t imagine that level of violence from a man like Lester. He certainly didn’t want to help him get out of it. He wanted to scream at him, pummel him. How dare you hurt the person you swore to protect? You stupid disgusting piece of shit, John wanted to call him. The same things he said to himself.

It was a test. Lorne was giving him the most despicable job possible to test his nerve.

After he left Lester’s, feeling dirty and sick, he needed to beat someone or fuck someone. Since there was no place in Bemidji to do either one without being noticed, he settled for punching the wall of the hotel he was staying in until his knuckles were bleeding, and then wanking off in the shower so hard that it hurt, blood and come swirling together down the drain as he shook and panted, tears streaming down his face.

Wet and cold, he flopped naked on the bed on his stomach and swept up his cigarettes and phone in one hand. He lit a cigarette and pushed the window behind him open with his toe. Nice thing about older hotels, windows that actually opened. There were three texts, one from Lester, one from Mycroft, one from a blocked number. His stomach did a flip.

He bypassed the other two and opened that one.

_You’ve always been on the side of the angels, John. Don’t forget it._

The phone hit the wall with such force that it cracked apart, shards of plastic flying to carpet. John barely made it to the loo before the vomit had made it’s way up. He slid to the floor, arms resting on the toilet bowl, and wept until he threw up again. Sleep found him finally, curled in a ball on the bathroom floor, tears and vomit dried on his face.

The next morning, he woke up cramped and freezing, feeling like he’d survived a violent car wreck.

He showered and smoked, wandered down to the hotel cafe for a coffee, and then got behind the wheel of the Buick. He breathed hard, tried to focus on the job at hand.

First, he had to buy a new phone.


	6. The Softest Part of Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's having misgivings about his new endeavors, and Sherlock's trying to get to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note references to/descriptions of self harm in this chapter, and fairly graphic violence.

**_Sherlock_ **

 

_You contacted him. M_

_I had to. He’s so lost. S_

_I don’t think you helped, dear brother. M_

_I’m going to him. Nothing else matters anymore. S_

_You have work to finish. M_

_He needs me. S_

_Caring is not an advantage. M_

_I don’t have a choice. Not with him. S_

_He’s not going to welcome you. He’s going to be furious. M_

_I don’t care. I’m already on my way. S_

_God speed, little brother. M_

_You don’t believe in God. S_

_Touche. M_

__

***

Sherlock had hurt a lot of people. Killed a few. They all deserved it, true, and he’d very little guilt about it. The fact remained that he’d hurt a lot of people, and the only time it had bothered him was when he thought about John’s response.

_A bit not good, Sherlock._

_Actual human lives. Do you care about them at all?_

_You machine!_

That one reverberated the most painfully. John shouting at him, calling him a machine. When he was cracking apart inside with how much he hurt, what he was losing. _Why_ hadn’t John seen how much pain he was in?

Because you’re a good actor, Sherlock. Because you make disguises, out of your emotions, and you hide behind them. Because if you’d let John see how you felt about him, he would have left you. Because he’s not gay, and he doesn’t see you that way, never had. These were the things he'd told himself, as he was herded onto a plane and shuttled off in secret to track down Moriarty's web. John was left to grieve, but John was strong; he'd survive until they were together again.

Except now all those justifications seemed desperately naive.

John was falling apart. Sherlock hardly recognised him, the thinness of his frame, the hard set to his jaw. He was doing things Sherlock never imagined John would be capable of. Hurting people, hurting himself. Sherlock rarely second guessed himself, but now...Now he was certain he’d caused this, by not telling John what was about to happen. By leaving him to be sucked in by the quicksand of grief.

At the time, he truly believed there was no choice. Later though... He could have, in some small way, shown him. Given him a a sign that he was alive, before John spiralled down. He didn’t though, he hadn’t, and John's breakdown was all his fault. Now he didn't care about small secret signals. He had to get to John, as quickly as possible. He had to fix this, what was wrong with John, or it would kill them both.

The only reason Sherlock hadn't openly contacted him is because he was still outside the distinctly long arm of Mycroft's influence, and both he and John would be almost immediately targeted if they had traceable contact.

So he'd been texting him from disposable phones, purchased in grubby backwater stores, or stolen out of the pockets of street dealers and thugs. John had to know it was him. He had to realise no one else could know the details of their private conversations, their "domestics".

He had once said John wasn't the most luminous of people. But that wasn't true at all. John had always glowed; with warmth and compassion, with intelligence and competence. John was clever in ways Sherlock could never be. In everyday ways. He had common sense. There was no way he couldn't realise what the texts meant, who they were from.

Sherlock closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the rattling metal of the baggage car he was riding in. He was so far away from John. He couldn’t sense him anymore. At home, he could feel him, even across the city. Feel his solid presence, hear his exasperated sigh behind a text, feel his eyes searing into him from ten miles away. Even clear across London, from Croyden to Enfield...he knew John was there, his soul was omnipresent, always inside Sherlock, reminding him of his own conscience. Now? Nothing.

The rhythmic rumble of the train was strangely soothing, and it was at least six hours before he reached his stop. He hadn’t slept in over thirty six hours. Maybe a short rest...just to let the gritty burning behind his eyelids subside…

He dreamt of John. In the disjointed way of dreams, John was both at Baker Street and in America. Sherlock met him in a hotel, John staring at him with teardrops suspended in his eyelashes. Sherlock slid his arms around his waist in the kitchen at Baker Street, rested his forehead against John’s wool clad shoulder. They drank tea in their chairs, John’s eyes so cerulean blue they couldn’t possibly be real. John’s lips against Sherlock’s, his hand cradling his jaw. John striding across that bleak parking lot, anger vibrating off his frame like heat. John laughing against the wall in the entry hall, hand pressed against his stomach. John crouched by a body, thighs tight and muscular in his jeans, his eyes beaming warmth and pride up at Sherlock.

Moments that had happened a hundred times. Moments that had never happened at all. But it was all John. John. Always John.

Sherlock woke up with a start, the feeling of John’s fingers in his hair just out of reach. He ruffled his own fingers through his hair and sighed. Dawn was breaking, a pale shard of pink light drifting the the crack in the doors of the baggage car. He’d slept all night. Hadn’t done that in, God, he couldn’t remember when. He lived in a constant state of exhaustion and hunger, Mycroft reluctantly lending assistance only when Sherlock’s life was in imminent danger.

Everything felt a dream. A nightmare. Scurried out of England like a criminal, in disguise, not permitted to tell John what was going on, and now...over a year later, and what a disaster. He hadn't even helped catch half the people he was supposed to have, and John had been destroyed.

Allowing Mycroft to pull all the strings, make all the decisions, had clearly been a miscalculation. Sherlock would have found a way around Moriarty’s network from London, with John stalwart at his side, as always. He knew that now, understood there could have been a different way.

It was too late.

Instead, he was thousands of miles from home, half starved all the time and under constant threat of death from everyone left alive in Moriarty’s network. Alone. Incessantly alone. He thought he'd liked being alone, always considered himself a solitary person. People were tedious, annoying, stupid.

That was before John.

John was the beating of his heart, the blood pulsing through his brain. John was the only thought that kept him going. John, John, John. The name thrummed through his body incessantly. It was a prayer. It was the only thing keeping him together.

If John had been with him, it would all have been so different. John, with his sturdy military bravery, his assuredness that things would work out, his calming presence. They would have laughed over the ridiculousness of it all. They would have sat in the little hovels Sherlock had to endure, shoulder to shoulder, hands brushing together over the wavering fire. Maybe they would even have fallen asleep that way, their heads drifting onto each other’s shoulders as the night deepened. Sherlock thought about it every morning that he woke up frigid and alone, back sore and half numb. What John’s eyes would have looked like centimeters from his own, blue and affectionate, sparkling in the grey morning sunshine, blonde lashes blinking at him.

He swallowed. God this was fucking torture. This was more torturous than any lashing he’d yet endured. He’d been beaten, tied up, kidnapped, had fallen into a frozen river once and nearly went hypothermic before a constable passed by and saw him sinking. Every breath he’d gasped out on the way to hospital was _John, John, John_. Out of his mind with fear and pain and cold, he’d screamed for him at the hospital, where no one spoke English. He’d eventually been tied to the bed with soft restraints, and as he fell into fevered dreams, he swore he could hear John’s voice, feel his lips at his ear. “You ridiculous git, what have you gone and done now? Remember when it was just the two of us against the world? I would be here with you if you’d let me. I would never have left you if you’d given me a chance. I’d never have let you fall in that river.”

He’d wept and wept, apologised until he was hoarse, thrashing in the bed until they finally sedated him.

All before he knew what John was going through. He’d had no idea what effect his death would have on John. He knew he’d miss him, of course, but thought he’d be alright. Be stable, at least. Now he knew better.

It seemed John needed Sherlock as much as Sherlock needed John. More, perhaps.

Sherlock rubbed his hand over his face as the train rumbled to a stop. He yanked the doors open and jumped out into a brisk foggy morning, the clouds laying low and orange across the horizon. He turned so he was facing due west, the sun casting his shadow stretched long and black in front of him.

He opened his mouth, shut it again. He just wanted to say it aloud, have it carried on the air. Maybe John would feel it somehow. “John, I’m coming. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Can you hear me? I’m on my way. I love you. I do."

He sucked in a hard breath, the air cold in his lungs. He stood there for a few seconds longer, as though if he stared long enough, John would know he was there.

Then, stealthy as a predatory cat, he broke into a long loping run. He had another train to catch.

***

_**John** _

A world and five time zones away, John was in Lester Nygaard’s kitchen, having coffee. John had found a grudging pity for him in the last week. He couldn’t not pity him, regardless of the awful things he’d done. He’d been a good person once. He’d tried to do the right things, work the steady job, marry the girl, buy the house. Do the things you’re supposed to do in life. Except life was sad and awful, with a wife who hated him and a job he was bad at, and in the end, it all came crashing down around him. A good man destroyed by the misery of it all.

It felt too darkly familiar.

“So, this Molly Solverson. She’s smart, and she knows you’re not telling her the truth. She’s not gonna let this go, Lester. You know that. You’ve really fucked it up here.” John sipped his coffee. Lester knew how to make a good cup of coffee, at least. He drank it black with two sugars now. It was comforting somehow, to drink Sherlock’s coffee.

“She’s got it in for me, Mr Watson.” Lester shook his head, as if he just couldn’t believe it. Lester shook his head like that all the time, as if he could somehow dispel everything that was happening, that had happened, with a shake of his head.

“Okay, Lester, just call me John, okay? We’ve been over this. First of all, my last name isn’t supposed to be Watson right now, so you say that to the wrong person, and there’s going to be some awkward questions I don’t want to answer, yeah? Also, fuck, we’re the same age. Don’t call me mister for fuck’s sake. It makes me feel like I’m your fucking father or some shit.” Lester winced every time John cursed. It gave him a perverse pleasure, made him curse more than usual.

“Sure thing. I’m sorry, I just forget.” Lester shot him a nervous smile and wrapped both hands around his coffee mug. “You know, I was noticing the other day, we’re the exact same height. Funny, innit?”

“Not particularly. I’m sure lots of people are this height.” John loathed any comparison with this weasley little bastard. He was quick to change the subject. “Tell me again about these two guys who tried to kill you. They think you did something that Lorne did? Tell me. In detail.”

Channeling Sherlock. That’s what it felt like sometimes, when he started digging for answers, really listening to what people said, their specific choice of words. Sherlock had taught him that. That semantics mattered, that observing rather than just watching, was critical.

_No, no, no, your exact words. Repeat your exact words from a moment ago, exactly as you said them._

_Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic ... hound._

_I’ll take the case._

God, that case. Baskerville. It had really messed with both their minds, but strangely brought them closer together than they'd ever been. It was the first time John hadn't argued when everyone assumed they were together. It was the first time they'd slept in the same room. John had laid there for hours, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of Sherlock's chest, every instinct in his body urging him to lay down next to that warm body, wrap his arms around him, breathe in the scent of his hair. Keep him safe.

He'd awoken to Sherlock's contemplative eyes fixed on him. They'd looked at each other silently, minutes stretching, time suspended. The gaze between them had been charged and intense, but John had convinced himself it meant nothing. They always looked at each other that way. It didn't mean Sherlock felt the same way he did.

Sherlock had been such an abominable prat, honestly, trying to drug him, locking him in that lab like a rat to be studied. He'd manipulated and used him the entire time they were investigating that case. He should have been so much angrier at him than he had been. That was when he realised how much he truly loved him. This man could do anything to him, and he would forgive it. Anything.

Of course, Sherlock really had been on the side of the angels, regardless of what he’s always said, or how wretchedly he could behave. John was working for a contract killer and helping a man who’d murdered his wife in cold blood. Sherlock would never have done this.

He fiddled with Sherlock’s watch, as had become his habit whenever he was feeling particularly tense. His fingers slid up his arm, to the ragged lines of fresh cuts from the night before. He couldn’t fuck anyone, he couldn’t beat anyone. Bemidji was like an episode of fucking Leave it to Beaver, and John was going crazy here. The pressure inside him had been building like a grenade with the pin taken out.

It seemed only natural. Razor blade to skin. Release the pressure.

The blood had flowed out more quickly than John had thought it would, rivulets running over the curve of his arm and dripping onto the white hotel sheets. He was mesmerised by the stinging, the sight of the split open skin. Pressed a fingertip to the wounds, the ache of it going straight to his soul, soothing a pain he couldn’t even name. He'd smeared the blood, painting his forearms with it.

He’d sat in bed after, licking his wounds like a cat, shivering with chill. Then he cleaned them properly, dressed them, slipping easily into the role of his own doctor. Then he had cried. Cried like he hadn’t since the night he broke his phone. Cried until there were no tears left, just a raspy throat and snot running down the side of his face onto the mattress. He didn’t know what he was doing anymore. God, he didn’t know. Everything hurt and he just wanted it to stop.

Greg had called. Once, twice. The third time John picked it up because he knew Greg would worry if he didn’t. He knew he sounded as if he’d been sobbing for an hour. Greg paused, reconsidered whatever he'd been about to say, then waffled on about the Yard, and Molly, and shit John couldn’t care about anymore even if he wanted to. Which he didn't. The darkness in him was suffocating. He barely managed a few grunts in reply, and hung up without remembering if he said goodbye or not.

There hadn’t been any more mysterious texts since that one morning, now three days previous. John found himself wishing for them now. There was some glimmer, some spark that had ignited within him.

What if? What. if.

Then he’d talk himself out of it. He’d taken Sherlock’s pulse, seen the blood and the white flecks of bone and brain across the sidewalk. It was impossible.

But who else would know that? The texter was saying things to him that only he and Sherlock could have known about. John knew Mycroft had bugged their flat, but he had no reason to play with John like this. John suspected he wouldn’t be able to recall details of their private conversations from three years ago, anyway. Moriarty could have, had he been listening in on Mycroft’s recordings, which was entirely possible...but he was dead, too.

The texts didn't seem cruel, in any case. While they'd terrified him at first, with a few days to think on them, they felt...loving. Like someone was watching out for him.

“John?” Lester snapped him out of his reverie. “I been thinking. What I really need to do is get rid of the hammer. I hid it in the wall downstairs, but they’ll find it soon, won’t they?”

“Yeah, Lester, they will. You need to throw the fucking thing in a river, burn it with hydrochloric acid first, get rid of your fingerprints on it, make it unidentifiable. Frame someone else, put it in _their_ house. But get that thing the fuck out of _yours_.”

John had split open one of the wounds from the night before. Blood was seeping into the sleeve of his jumper. “You got any gauze?”

“Oh. You’re bleeding there.” Lester pointed to John’s arm.

“Yeah, I fucking know. That’s why I’m asking for gauze.” John still had the assignment in the package he’d picked up in Fargo. He had to get this weasel done with, and fast. The truth was, he didn’t really have any idea how to be a criminal. Beating the fuck out of people and being angry wasn’t enough. He was used to working with cops, not against them. Used to looking for evidence, not destroying it.

“Aw, hang on there. It’s in the upstairs bathroom, I’ll just be a minute.” Lester shuffled out of the kitchen, and John let out a long sigh as soon as he was out of earshot. The man was tedious as hell.

_You’re an idiot. No, no, no, don’t look like that. Practically everyone is._

John actually felt his mouth tick up marginally. It was the first time a memory of Sherlock didn’t burn. His phone buzzed, and a thrill of anticipation shot through his belly.

Unknown number.

He closed his eyes and prayed, opened his eyes and swiped the screen with a trembling finger.

_You take sugar in your coffee now? Careful. You never know when someone might have drugged it._

“Oh.” John let out a shuddering breath. It could not be. But he had to take the chance. This time, he just had to see. He knew exactly what to say, what no one else could possibly have heard. Because this wasn’t a conversation at Baker Street. This was no chance Mycroft had been recording them. They had been all alone for this, sitting in the warm morning light in Dartmoor, having breakfast together. No one else could possibly know.

He typed slowly, hovering over send for at least a full minute before he heard Lester coming down the steps and quickly touched his finger to the screen.

_It wasn’t in the sugar._

He couldn’t take his eyes off the screen. “Come on, come on.” He hissed, teeth grinding together.

Lester walked in. “Here’s the gauze, sorry it took me a minute.”

John held up a staying hand, not taking his eyes off his phone. “Shh.”

The text came through, and John choked and swayed, his head going so light he almost passed out. He gripped the edges of Lester’s kitchen table until his knuckles were white, blood beginning to drip from his arm onto the floor.

_I was wrong. It won’t happen again._

***

The blizzard had just gotten heavy when John left Lester’s and headed back to his hotel. He half thought he had finally lost his mind entirely. He’d made Lester read the texts, to make sure they were real, that he wasn’t just hallucinating them.

He needed to think.

John rubbed Sherlock’s watch absently, feeling half nauseous with a hope he dared not allow himself to feel. There’d been no further contact after the last text, though. He'd texted back immediately, daring an open question instead if this cat and mouse game, "Sherlock? Is that you?" And nothing. Silence.

He pulled into a parking spot at the back of the hotel and ducked his head down against the swirling snow. He was half frozen and numb by the time he got into the hotel lobby, but he couldn’t be bothered to care.

The sheets had been changed. God knows what the cleaning staff thought about all the blood. He lay down on the made bed and tucked his palms behind his head. It couldn’t be possible. Even if Sherlock was alive, _where had he been_? Why hadn’t he come home?

These were questions he couldn’t even fathom the existence of. Sherlock could NOT be alive. He’s seen his broken body. Been to his funeral.

Since the texts had begun, though, there was a nagging doubt. John hadn’t been able to take Sherlock’s pulse for more than a few seconds before he was ripped unceremoniously away from him. He hadn’t actually seen his body afterwards. Mycroft insisted it would be too traumatic, and John had argued he was in the army, he’d seen damage to the human body that Mycroft wouldn’t begin to envision. Mycroft insisted this was different, because it was Sherlock, because of what they were to each other.

Mycroft.

John lit a cigarette and rested the ashtray on his chest, blew smoke at the ceiling. Mycroft. It had always been Mycroft directing everything, pulling the strings behind the curtain. Mycroft who had been there at hospital after Sherlock died. Mycroft who had made the funeral arrangements. Mycroft who had carefully and methodically kept John out of every aspect of what happened after Sherlock died.

Mycroft hadn’t been in touch since the texts had begun.

The spark of suspicion was growing into a flame. Flickering and weak, but a flame of hope nonetheless. For the first time in months, he felt something like himself. There was a hint of John Watson, peering out from deep inside. If Sherlock was alive, oh god. He could barely allow himself to think the words.

He’d just put out his cigarette when he sensed movement in the loo. In less than a second, he’d dropped into defensive crouch beside the bed. Eyes fixed on the thin wood veneer of the bathroom door, he saw a shadow move silently in the crack of light underneath. Shit.

He’d not been able to get a gun yet. Malvo hadn’t given him one, and getting one legally was impossible. He felt lost now without the Sig at the end of his arm. Fists would only get him so far. Shit shit shit.

Panic coiled tight and cold in his stomach as the bathroom door started to swing open. He was so focused on what was in front of him, the blow from behind was a complete shock. He instinctively whirled, arm flinging out to cut the legs out from under whoever was behind him. It was a solid wall of muscle. In the quick glance he got in before the next blow, he caught a fringed leather jacket and height, just height.

Then he was falling back, pain radiating through his jaw, head bouncing against the edge of the mattress. As he fell, he thought incongruously how comical that must have looked. A bearded face loomed over him, black eyes intense.

“Who are you working for?” Kick to the ribs. John curled up, clamping his elbows to his side in a protective pose.

“Fuck you.” John spat through clenched teeth.

“Oh, we gonna be cute? Naaaaw.” A nod from the beard, and John was dragged up by his shoulders, two hard punches landed to the soft part of his stomach. He fought the urge to vomit, swallowed the bile down.

Fringe dropped him abruptly on the floor. The side of his head smacked against the metal bedframe. Another kick to his back. And another. They were going to beat him unconscious.

“Who are you working for?”

“Fuck you again.” His voice sounded weak even to his own ears. It had been an extremely long time since he’d lost a fight. He was used to being the one doing the beating. Karma, John. You deserve this, this is retribution for what you’ve been doing.

That was the last thought he had before he couldn’t think at all anymore. The blows kept coming, and as the pain became more than he could stand, his vision began to narrow.

***

John opened his eyes and saw nothing but white. It was freezing. He realised he was laying on ice. Why was he laying on ice? His head was pounding. God, everything hurt.

He couldn’t keep his eyes open.

Someone shouted, there was a buzzing noise from somewhere, a thump.

He couldn’t focus. He had no fight left.

Darkness enveloped him.

***

The next time he opened his eyes, it was to the green glare of a hospital wall. Fuck, even his eyelids hurt. He tried to swallow, but something foreign was in his throat. He gagged.

A familiar voice, “He’s awake. Oh, John, you’re awake. Well, GET someone. NOW.”

He couldn’t keep his eyes open, couldn’t turn his head. There was a sweeping pressure against his aching forehead. A kiss. Someone had kissed his forehead.

He forced his eyes open, fighting against the pain of doing so. Black curls, aqua eyes. So familiar, but he couldn’t...couldn’t quite sort it out. Everything was so muddled.

“Hey, blue eyes.” Gentle cadence, something deeply comforting about this voice. Something vaguely familiar stirred in the back of John’s mind. “Thought I might never get to see those again. No, just, shhhh. Don’t try to talk, or move. I’ll be right back, just getting the nurse.”

John’s eyes fell closed again, too much effort to keep them open. Everything was edged in white fuzz, as if the room and his mind had both been padded with cotton. His ears were full, couldn’t hear properly.

It was no good, he couldn’t stay awake. As he slipped back into unconsciousness, he felt fingers threading through his own and squeezing. He tried to squeeze back, but he couldn’t. Couldn't do anything except give in to the pull of the blackness behind his eyes.

***

The next time he woke up, the tube was out of his throat, and he was alone.

**  
  
  
  
**


	7. Something I Understand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I ain't givin' it away.

_**John** _

The room was desperately hot. John couldn’t get a deep breath, the air was so dry and thick. He fumbled for the call button, fingers clumsy and swollen. He couldn’t make his fingers contract enough to actually press it. Fuck. He needed water, and paracetamol, and food. Oh, god, it was bright. How can eyeballs hurt, he wondered, as he let his eyes fall shut. Because, god, they did.

“John.” There was a voice at his ear, but it wasn’t the nurse. He turned and squinted. Huge blue eyes stared back at him, a quirky smile on Lester’s mouth.

“Lester.” His voice came out in a croak, barely audible. God, his throat burned. He could feel the outline of the tube still, the ghost of it against the fragile skin of his esophagus.

“I did it. I did what you said.” He let out a breath through his nose, smiling more broadly.

“What I…? What are you talking about?” John gestured toward the sink on the wall. “Get me some water.”

“Sure, sure.” Lester muttered, in that quick nervous way of speaking that he had.

John was uncomfortably thankful to see him. At least it was a familiar face. A flicker of something else, another familiar face, sparked in the back of his mind, but he couldn’t quite hold on to it. The idea of it was left, someone familiar and comforting, murmured words, but no, it was...too ephemeral.

Lester handed him a styrofoam cup of water, watched him drinking it with unblinking eyes.

“That’s fucking creepy, Lester. Blink.” John put the cup down on the plastic tray table beside the bed. Beige. Like everything else in this godforsaken place. “Thanks for the water.”

“Sure thing.” Lester reminded him rather disturbingly of a dog, pleased to have followed its master’s orders. He just crouched on the edge of the chair next to John’s bed, smiling, eyes fixed on John intently.

“You obviously want to tell me something. Spit it out.” God, he wanted a cigarette. He would _fuck_ someone for a cigarette right now. This was an old hospital. He glanced over at the window. Yes, they opened. Perfect. “Lester, in my coat. Cigarettes. Give them to me.”

“Oh, you’re not supposed to smoke in the…”

“Are you fucking kidding me? We’re fucking criminals, Lester. Smoking in a public building is the least of our problems. Now, fucking hand me my cigarettes.” John shoved himself higher on the bed, rolled his aching neck. As he held his hand out to take the cigarette pack from Lester, he saw how battered he was - his whole forearm purple and black, hands bandaged and swollen, a few fingernails had fallen out. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Lester’s eyes went soft and sympathetic. “They beat you bad, John. Real bad. Got a few cracked ribs, I heard the doctor sayin.”

“You don’t look too hot yourself, Lester.” Lester was green, his colour all off. He looked even more frail than usual.

“Yeah. Had a real bad infection. I’m alright now. Anyways. I did what you said.” Weasel was practically vibrating with excitement.

John sighed exasperatedly, which hurt, badly. The searing, stabbing pain in the left side of his chest confirmed the cracked ribs Lester had mentioned. He pressed a hand to his side and tried to breathe shallowly. Just breathe through the pain, and it would subside. He’d had cracked ribs before.

_Jesus, John, why didn’t you say?  
It’s fine. Nothing to worry about. I’ll just wrap it. I am a doctor, if you haven’t forgotten._   
_But John. You’re black and blue._   
_I fell over a brick wall, of course I am. I’m alright. A few days of crap telly in bed, and I’ll be right as rain._   
_Tell me next time. You can’t be running around London with three cracked ribs. Promise me, John._   
_Alright, Sherlock. I promise._

“What? What did I say to do?” John swallowed, closed his eyes. It was too much effort to keep them open. A vision swam in back of his eyelids, a half remembered voice. _Hey, blue eyes._ The harder he tried to make it solidify, the farther away it became.

Lester’s voice dropped to a hissing whisper. “I got rid of the hammer. I put it in my brother’s house, with a picture of Pearl and some of her...ah...underthings. Made it look like he and she were...you know.”

“Lester, Jesus Christ. Shut the fuck up. You can’t _say_ this shit out loud in a public place. Fuck, but you’re stupid as shit sometimes.” John bit back an urge to smack him. “But, you know, well done, I guess.”

Lester looked like John had just petted him. A wave of nausea rolled up in John’s throat, head swimming. God, what was he? What had he become, helping people like this? Telling them how to hide evidence and get away with murder. Sherlock would be so disappointed in him.

SHERLOCK.

That’s who the voice was. _Hello, blue eyes._ That’s who the face was, black curls tumbling into John’s blonde hair as those perfect lips had swept over his forehead. No no no no. That could not have happened. Sherlock could not possibly have been here. It was dream, a hallucination. He was on powerful painkillers, that was the explanation.

“Lester. How long have you been here? What happened to us?” John shook a cigarette out of the pack and lit it. The inhalation hurt, needles stabbing into his skin and muscle, his lungs rejecting the contraction. He let the smoke out slowly, watching it lazily curl toward the cardboard tile ceiling.

Lester cleared his throat, and crossed the room to open the window. A rush of frigid air blew in, snowflakes dancing in the wind and settling on the bedsheets. Lester settled back next to the bed and cleared his throat.

“Well. See, these two, whaddya call em...roughnecks, I guess, the bearded fella and the deaf one, they must be looking for Malvo. They found me, then you, and tossed us both in the trunk of their car. They were going to kill us. You were out for most of it. They took us to the lake, cut a hole in the ice. Asking all kinds of questions about who killed Sam Hess, who did we work for. I had this taser I took from my brother’s house, and I used it on the bearded fella, bought me a little time to pick you up and we ran like heck.” Lester paused, clearly proud of himself, and looked at John expectantly.

“You. Carried. Me. You _carried_ me?” John was having a terribly difficult time imagining Lester carrying a heavy shopping bag, let alone John. Solid, muscled John, who had always been much heavier than he looked. Especially when he was unconscious dead weight.

“Yes, I sure did. It wasn’t easy, mind, but I did. Got us through to the main road, and I see a police officer by their car, and they saw the state we were in, and called an ambulance right away. They got us away just in time, those two perched on the edge of the forest, just watching. I was half out of my mind with fever from my hand,” He waved a thickly bandaged hand in front of John’s face. “And you were still out cold, brain swelled up like a rotten fruit from being hit in the head so many times, and well. Here we are. Both fixed up.”

John inhaled slowly, careful not to strain his abdominal muscles. He blew out the smoke at the little telly mounted from the ceiling. He couldn’t look at Lester. “You saved my life, Lester, goddammit.”

“Well, if you look at it that way, yes, I guess I did.”

“Lester, I don’t think there’s another way to look at it. Those fuckers were going to throw me into a frozen lake to drown, and you stopped them from doing that. You saved my life.” For the first time since he watched that coat billowed through the air, John realised he was glad he wasn’t dead. He actually was relieved to be alive, to feel the pain in his lungs as he inhaled nicotine and his broken ribs moved, to feel the empty ache inside that reminded him Sherlock was still gone, and residing next to it, a small spark of hope that maybe he wasn’t. In that moment, John Watson didn’t want to die.

Sherlock. The memory of that gentle voice next to his ear surged back.

“Lester, was there anyone else here? Have I had any visitors besides you?” John’s voice sounded urgent and frantic to his own ears. he was terrified of the answer, either way.

“There was a fella, yeah. He said he had things to take care of, said he’d be back later. English, like you. Tall, weird eyes. They were a funny colour.”

His heart beat wrong. His ears filled with fluid. There was a ball gag in his mouth, someone was choking him. He gagged on the cigarette smoke. Oh, fuck, he was going to throw up.

Lester seemed to sense it and leapt up and out of the way just in time, as John turned and vomited over the side of the bed. His vision darkened, vomit dripping from his lips, and he was sure he was about to be sucked back into unconsciousness.

“I’ll get the nurse.” Lester scurried from the room, skidding momentarily in the puddle of sick on the floor.

John wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and threw the cigarette butt in his cup of water. It was impossible. It. Was. Impossible. But what if it _wasn’t_ , what then? Sherlock would never leave him, never abandon him like this, he was sure - had always been sure. Now there was a sick horrible knot of fear in his gut. He could sense the rage boiling around the edges, like a kettle just ready to start screaming. If Sherlock was alive...where the fuck had he been all this time?

The nurse came in, Lester retreated to a corner as she cleaned up the vomit and checked John’s vitals. She crossed the room and closed the window, twisting the lock firmly. Then she returned to John to remove the thermometer from his mouth. She patted him on the arm, her eyes lingering on the cuts he’d given himself. Their eyes locked, and she allowed her sleeve to hitch up a little, showing purple and white shiny lines across her wrists. They stared at each other, and John felt something dislodge in his chest.

He bit his suddenly trembling lip. He wasn’t the only one to have pain, the only one to bear loss. For the first time in so long, with this random interaction with a nurse whose name he would probably never know, he took a breath in as John Watson. He felt...himself...if only for a brief second.

She squeezed his arm, smiled kindly and left the room. Lester came over and pulled the chair back up beside the bed. He smiled at John, confusion behind his eyes. “You alright, John?”

“Lester. You have to tell me absolutely everything about this tall English man you saw, including where the fuck did he go?” John huffed out his nose, his head throbbing. His mouth tasted of tobacco and vomit, and he felt disgusting. “But first, go get me a Coke, and something to eat, and do it fast. There’s money in my jeans.”

***

John couldn’t sleep. Lester had left hours ago, been discharged. It was dark outside, snow still swirling against the window. He gnawed the inside of his cheek, anxious and jumpy. He desperately wanted out of this hospital bed, but the truth was he was probably too weak to stand. He hadn't even tried. He had a catheter in, which was humiliating and also likely necessary.  

It had to have been Sherlock. Sherlock was alive.

Lester described him perfectly, down to woolen trousers and leather gloves. Down to the colour of his indescribable eyes. John had never mentioned a single word about Sherlock to Lester. He supposed Malvo probably knew about Sherlock, though he’d acted as if he hadn’t, but John was sure he’d not said anything to Lester.

No. Lester wasn’t playing him, wasn’t lying. It was Sherlock.

The knowledge of this was making him completely insane. He obsessively glanced at the door every time someone walked down the hallway. He had no way to get in contact with the texter, no way to trace those numbers. He’d called Sherlock’s old mobile number, and of course it was disconnected. He’d called Mycroft, who didn’t answer. He didn’t dare call Greg or Molly or Mrs Hudson, they’d be too upset if he casually asked, “So, heard from Sherlock lately?”

His lip was bleeding again. There was practically no intact skin left on the inside, all shreds and scabs. He worried a scab with his teeth, trying to think clearly.

How could Sherlock have survived? John watched him jump, followed with terrified disbelieving eyes as his body fell. True, he hadn’t seen the actual impact, but he’d seen him just seconds later, blood and brain matter everywhere. He’d taken his fucking pulse. He didn’t have one.

His mouth ticked to the side, a nervous thinking habit that Sherlock had always commented on.

_John, what are you thinking about?  
Me? What? I’m not thinking about anything._   
_Yes, you are. The right corner of your mouth just ticked up approximately two centimeters and your eyes shifted down. That means you’re thinking._   
_Sherlock. Don’t deduce me, okay?_   
_Merely an observation, John._

He closed his eyes. They were gritty and painful, and he was exhausted. Everything hurt. His body, his mind, his heart. Everything.

There were footfalls in the hall again. This time, though. This time. He _knew_ those footfalls, had listened to them every day for two and a half years. Listened to them taking the steps two at a time, pacing in the sitting room at 3:00am, in cadence with his own as they stalked to a crime scene feeling not a little bit like superheroes.

Oh fuck, oh fuck. He was going to throw up again. His skin erupted in goosepimples, his scalp went cold. Everything was shaking. This was too much, he didn’t know how to process this. Tears were already seeping from his closed eyes, hot down his cheeks. This was the most overwhelmed he’d ever felt in his life. This was worse than being in the middle of a firefight. At least he knew what to do then, with a gun hitched on his shoulder and a vest over his fatigues. That was adrenaline and instinct. This. This was uncharted territory.

He couldn’t open his eyes.

The footfalls stopped just inside the door to his room. He heard a soft intake of breath. He still couldn’t open his eyes. He knew Sherlock would know he was awake. Could never feign sleep with Sherlock around.

Time stopped. John could hear Sherlock breathing, could hear the snow outside, the wind howling. There was a distant squeak of a nurse’s sensible shoe on the linoleum floor. His own heart was thudding in his ears deafeningly loudly.

Sherlock cleared his throat very quietly. Testing. Observing John’s reaction. That motherfucker. Still observing him, deducing him, like a bloody experiment, after what he’d put him though. John could feel the rage uncoiling inside him, the kind that made him pound people’s faces into tile walls in airport bathrooms. He wanted to beat the shit out of Sherlock, hit that beautiful face until it was putty. He wanted to scream at him, beat on his chest with his fists, make him hurt the way John had been hurting.

Until he heard his voice.

“John?”

His mouth fell open with a sob, the sound of his name on Sherlock’s tongue after all this time sending chills through his entire body. He was quaking, falling apart. He was choking, he couldn’t swallow. He definitely couldn’t speak. He laid there, head facing the window, eyes closed, though he knew Sherlock would easily see how his entire body was shuddering.

“John, I’m so sorry.” Sherlock whispered, hushed and hoarse, his voice breaking on the the single syllable of John’s name.

John’s hands flew to his face. Wracked by weeping, he couldn’t hold it in, shoulders shivering and his cheeks slippery with tears. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t look at Sherlock. He was paralysed by this new reality. He’d lived for almost two years in grief, he was used to grief, and misery, and pain. He lived in them, they walked with him. He was alone. That was his reality.  

Sherlock standing here. Alive. This was a new reality. There would be rows and screaming and fighting. He hated him. Never had he imagined he could feel this kind of anger and loathing for someone he loved down to his bone marrow. Maybe those were the _only_ people that could inspire hate so strong, because they could hurt so deeply, wound so irreparably.

He couldn’t even begin to fathom how they would repair all the things that were broken between them, that were broken and wrong inside John. How they would ever again laugh easily at each other over a stale cup of coffee. Some actions weren't forgivable. Some moments weren't eraseable. John didn't know that he could ever forgive either of them, Sherlock or himself.

“I am so sorry. I don’t know how else to...can I...can I, please?” Sherlock’s voice wobbled. John had never heard him sound so hesitant before.

He didn’t even know what Sherlock was asking for, but he nodded weakly, hands still over his face. He couldn't say no to Sherlock, never could. Then Sherlock was screeching a chair across the floor and sitting down in it, he could feel his proximity. He could smell the fucking Belstaff, wool and tobacco and mints. He shook and shook, nervous perspiration soaking into the hospital sheets. He didn’t know what to do.

He felt Sherlock leaning in towards him. They would never have been this physically close before, but there seemed to be new rules now. No rules. Sherlock’s hand closed warm and dry over John’s and tugged very, very tenderly. Sherlock had never touched his hand that way before, fingers curling gently around the fleshy part, his palm laid over John's fingers.

Sherlock's hand in his. Sherlock's hand not rotting under ground. No, this hand was warm and real and John could feel Sherlock's pulse thumping in his wrist.

“Please. Please may I see your face? I missed it so, and you were asleep before. I just want to...see you looking at me.” Sherlock’s voice was barely audible. John allowed him to pull one hand away from his face, and then the other. “Hey, blue eyes. Won't you look at me? Please."

John shook his head, finally found his voice. He croaked out, "I can't. I'm afraid of myself, afraid of...I just _can't._ "

There was a heavy exhalation, a sigh, and then the weight of Sherlock's head settled on John's hands, still enclosed in Sherlock's much larger ones. His curls fell across John's forearm, and John sucked in air, trying to fill his lungs. Sherlock's head was on his arm. He just couldn't comprehend any of this.

"I wanted to. So many times, and then...I just didn't, and I had no idea. John, I had no idea. I thought...I never thought that you...that my loss would affect you like this." Sherlock was fumbling for words. His voice was caramel, hot tea, a warm blanket over John's legs on a chilly night at Baker Street. It was low and gentle, and tentative, saturated with sorrow and love and worry. It was home.

The sound of it burrowed down inside the dark places in John, all the places he'd been living for two years, and expanded. It pushed at the darkness, poked holes through the veil of misery John had draped himself in for so long. He couldn't deny it, as much as he wanted to. He was so angry and confused, but this was all he'd been wanting, just Sherlock, alive and sitting next to him.

He opened his eyes.

Sherlock’s hair. That’s all he could see. Black and mahogany curls, tumbled over each other, mussed and windblown, the way he’d seen them a thousand times standing on some random street corner, police lights flashing a halo behind. The same curls he saw frizzled and damp, just out of the shower, standing in the kitchen eating toast together, sunlight cutting shards through the chemistry equipment. The same curls he’d been trying to replicate on every male hooker he’d been able to find for the last year.

Disgust at himself warred with relief and affection and he didn’t even know what else. He couldn’t name all the emotions surging through him just looking down at those golden black curls draped over his scarred and bandaged forearm. He wasn’t understanding any of this, and quite suddenly, with the force of rounding a corner and running into something solid, he realised he didn’t _want_ to. Not right now.

There was something between them in this moment, a tenderness and a closeness they’d never permitted before. Guards were down, they were tired and broken and they’d both been so alone. John didn’t want to fight. He didn’t want to have the inevitable conversation about what had happened, where the fuck Sherlock had been all this time. They would have to have that conversation another day. He was too exhausted right now, too grateful.

“Sherlock.” God, he hadn’t said his name in so long. It felt foreign on his tongue, awkward. “Sherlock. I opened my eyes.”

Sherlock lifted his head, his own eyes red rimmed and achingly sad. John choked out another sob, his mouth trembling so hard he didn’t think he could even speak. He was looking at Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes, his ridiculous cheekbones, his caterpillarish eyebrows. He was thinner, his skin was rougher; he looked like he’d been outside a lot, and his laugh lines were deepened, the furrow in his brow more pronounced.  

But undeniably Sherlock.

Without stopping to consider what he was doing, he pulled a hand out from under Sherlock's, and touched his fingertips to Sherlock's face. He had to. He had to touch him, even though he'd never once put a hand on Sherlock's face before. It seemed painfully intimate, but he couldn't not. Sherlock allowed himself a small smile, eyes fixed on John's.

"I can't believe you're real." He traced over Sherlock's face, mapping it, memorising the feeling of his skin, drifted his hand down under his jaw. Sherlock swallowed against his fingers, and John kept his fingers there, the feeling of Sherlock's esophagus moving the most wondrous thing he'd ever felt.

“I’m real. I’m real, and so very sorry, John. I should have told you from the beginning. I listened to the wrong people, I should have...” Sherlock’s lower lip quivered, and John was overcome with the need to touch it, to comfort him, the caretaker in him reemerging.

“I should hate you. I want to hate you. I really do. I want so badly to hate you.” John’s thumb drifted over Sherlock’s lip. He couldn’t believe he was being allowed this. Allowed to touch Sherlock like this. He expected at any moment for Sherlock to wrench away, shove John’s hand down to the bed. Instead, he seemed to be moving closer, leaning into John’s caress.

He was caressing him at this point. Wonder at his mere presence was giving way to a bone deep ache to touch him, an ache that had been building since the moment their eyes met in that lab so many years ago, and repressed for so long. This Sherlock, though, he was different. This wasn't the same man who stood on that roof, or the same man who told John he was married to his work. This Sherlock had softer edges, gentler eyes, he'd been worn and changed by whatever had happened to him in the time they were apart. This Sherlock was nudging his cheek into John’s hand and sighing.

“I want to be angry, Sherlock. I can’t make it this easy for you.” John shook his head, even as Sherlock’s face looming closer. John seemed to be pulling him. “You owe me. You completely fucked up my life. And I don’t even know why. I don’t even know what all this was for.”

“I know. I know, John, I’m so sorry. I can’t begin to express how sorry I am. I’ll explain everything to you, all of it. I promise you, it was for you. I believed it was all for you.” Sherlock’s eyes roamed all over John’s face, over his bruises and cuts, down over the choke marks on his throat. He looked back up and their eyes locked, as they’d done so many hundreds of times before.

The air in the room was thicker. Something had irrevocably shifted between them, and they both knew it. It was barely ten minutes since Sherlock had walked into the room, and two miserable long years since they’d seen each other. It was moving too fast. They weren’t giving each other space to understand, they didn’t seem able. Every buried feeling they’d ever had, all the whispered words they’d never said, they were all right here, laid bare in both their eyes. John realised now that Sherlock felt just the same as he always had.

“I’m going to want to kill you when I’m not trapped in a hospital bed. Do you have any fucking idea, Sherlock? What I’ve….the things I’ve done. I’m not a good person anymore.” He wanted to shout, to rip into him, but it just wasn’t there. The righteous anger he thought he’d have was tempered by awe. He started crying in earnest again, a surge of emotion caught in his throat. “I’ve done awful things, so many awful things...I can’t…”

A tear threatened, caught in Sherlock’s lower lashes, and then dropped, rolling down the smooth curve of Sherlock’s cheekbone. He shook his head, more tears following the first. “No. You’re the best person I’ve ever known --”

“No, I’m not. I’ve, Jesus, Sherlock...I’ve done absolutely wretched things. I’ve hurt a lot of people. I don’t even know who I am anymore.” John still hadn’t moved his hand. His palm was wet with Sherlock’s tears, his thumb still rubbing over Sherlock’s lip.

“I know who you are.” Sherlock’s voice was reverential, hushed. “You’re Captain John Hamish Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. You’re the most talented doctor I’ve ever had the privilege to watch at work. You’re the person who saved me from myself, and other things, so many times, in so many ways. You’re the best and wisest man I’ve ever known. You’re my best friend...and...so much more than that.”

“More?” John whispered, terrified that this moment could slip away.

“More.” Sherlock looked into John’s eyes, tilted his head, and John automatically pulled on his chin. There was a beat of recognition in their gaze, and then they were kissing.

It wasn’t what John had always imagined it would be like to kiss Sherlock. It wasn’t sparks and fire. It wasn’t electricity racing down his spine. It was beautifully, wondrously familiar. It was what they should always have been - had already been, without acknowledging it. Sherlock’s lips were silken, almost unbelievably soft, against John’s wrecked bloody mouth. There was a brief dart of a tongue licking John’s top lip, and then Sherlock pulled back, staring into John’s face.

“Was that…?”

“It was perfect. It was -- it was perfect, Sherlock.” John needed more. He needed Sherlock close to him. “I don’t want to talk anymore tonight. Everything fucking hurts, and I’m on morphine, I can barely fucking think. Just, can you?”

John moved, shifted to the side, and winced as pain shot down his side from his broken ribs. The catheter tube was trapped between the mattress and the metal rail. Shit. This was going to get real intimate, real quick.

“What’s wrong, John?” Sherlock jumped from his chair, immediately at attention, worry crinkling his brow. It made John’s heart hurt, the tenderness of him. The sight of him.

“Um. The catheter, it’s stuck.” John was rarely uncomfortable about bodily functions, being a doctor, and having shared living quarters with dozens of other men, but he felt heat rising on his cheeks.

“Oh.” Sherlock threw the sheets back without hesitation or embarrassment and untangled the tube, moved it over so John could shift over more. “Better?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” John smoothed the sheet back down. “Can you just? I still can’t really...I just need you right here.”

“I won’t hurt you?”

“No. You won’t hurt me. The only way you could hurt me is if you left again. And then I would definitely kill you.” Sherlock dared to laugh, and John did too. John could hardly believe how easy this was. There would have to be a consequence at some point, but he just couldn’t face it tonight.

“I will never again leave you, John Watson. I promise you that.” Sherlock shrugged off the Belstaff and laid it across John’s clothes in the armchair. He pulled off his boots, and hesitantly put a knee onto the edge of the bed. “Are you absolutely sure I won’t hurt you?”

“Just get the fuck over here. I never thought I would see you again, let alone kiss you and hold you, and I just...get in this bed.”

Sherlock gingerly laid down next to John, his arms curled at his chest, legs rigidly straight.

“No. No, not enough.” John tugged at Sherlock's arm and wriggled towards him.

Sherlock caught on, and sat up, helped John move, propping him up with gentle hands and rearranging the IV lines and cords leading to various monitors, until John was settled in the cradle of Sherlock’s arms. He wasn’t surprised at how comforting and right it felt, to have his head against Sherlock’s shoulder, breathing in the wintry smell of his skin, the earthy scent of his woolen scarf still lingering on his neck.

Sherlock, alive. Holding John in his arms. He couldn’t be angry right now. He just couldn’t. This was too miraculous.

His eyelids were getting heavier. Sherlock’s hand began slowly stroking up his arm. “This okay? Doesn’t hurt?”

“Mmm. No. Feels good.” John suddenly clutched at Sherlock’s collar, a wave of emotion washing over him. “ _Don’t leave._ ”

“I’m not going anywhere, John. Never again. We’re going to make this right. Together.” Sherlock continued rubbing his arm, tucked his face into the top of John’s head. “Get some rest, you’re a disaster.”

“Don’t think I can help it. So tired.” John sighed, sinking into Sherlock’s chest.

“I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

“You better be. If you’re a dream, I’m going to be fucking furious.”

John fell asleep to the rhythm of Sherlock’s fingers trailing up and down his arm. Sherlock watched him breathing, turning over all the things they hadn’t said, hadn’t talked about. He couldn’t believe he’d come back and walked right into John’s waiting arms. He knew it couldn’t last. There was a John Watson rage coming.

For tonight, however...John was alive, laying against Sherlock’s chest, and he’d kissed him. Kissed him. Remarkable.

Sherlock eventually drifted off with a smile on his lips, and missed the silent figure who came to stand in the doorway in the early hours of the morning. Malvo wasn’t there for John, but he was a compiler of information. He liked knowing people’s weaknesses. John’s weakness was very evidently this lanky alien looking man squeezed beside him in the hospital bed. That could be very useful information, should he ever need leverage.

Malvo smiled and nodded to himself, and silently closed the door.


	8. Shivering and Stunned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have a very long and difficult discussion, because, as usual, these two have a terrible time actually saying what needs to be said.

_**Sherlock** _

Sherlock woke before John, the pale morning light casting a bluish pall over the hospital room. His arm was completely numb behind John’s shoulders, but it didn't occur to him to move it. John's face was tucked under his chin, resting heavily against Sherlock's collarbone. Only the nubby end of that perfect nose was visible, and Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from tracing a finger over it. John snuffled and sighed, the sound of which burrowed down inside, making a home right in the center of Sherlock's chest.

John. Solid, dependable John. Laying in hospital bed after being nearly beaten to death by mob hitmen. He was working for a hitman. He was helping that squirrelly fellow Lester who'd been here the day before, who’d done god knows what. There was so much else Sherlock couldn’t begin to know. John had always been a man with demons, his basic decency and kindness pushing them back, keeping the monsters caged.

They’d been let loose, obviously, and they were tearing John apart.

Sherlock shifted enough that he could reach across his chest and take John’s left hand in his. It was less swollen than it had been yesterday, but blacker now, and looked so small and delicate laying atop Sherlock’s much larger one. The fingernail on John’s ring finger was missing. He put John’s hand to his lips and kissed it gently, then laid it back on the sheets, afraid to cause him pain.

He would _kill_ whoever had done this to John. He would kill them. Lester couldn’t give Sherlock more than a physical description of the pair. Didn’t know names or associations. Mycroft would, though, or he’d find out. Sherlock had contacted him last night, was waiting to hear back.

There was a soft knock at the door, and then a nurse swept in, all smiling efficiency. She was young, with a messy brown ponytail and friendly eyes. She smiled at Sherlock when their eyes met, and then stepped in between the bed and the wall.

“I have to just check his vitals, replace the catheter bag. How’d he sleep?” She checked John’s IV bag, slipped a pulse ox monitor on the index finger of his right hand.

“Uh.” Sherlock’s voice was creaky. He cleared his throat, and John mumbled something and pushed his nose into Sherlock’s armpit, still soundly asleep. “I guess he slept fine. I was asleep myself, so...did you need me to move?”

She smiled warmly at him and shook her head. “No. You’re fine. We’re not really supposed to, you know...you’re supposed to sleep in the fold out chair, but, this one. He needed somebody real bad. I guess you’re that somebody.”

“I am.” The assertiveness in his own voice startled him. He tried again. “Yes, I mean, he’s my...friend.”

“He needs one.” She bent down to replace the catheter bag, straightened up and planted her hands on her hips. “He’s going to be here for a little while. Real banged up."

“I’m not not going anywhere.” Sherlock said fiercely, and she nodded briskly at him.

“Good. Then I’ll see you later. Don’t wake him. He needs the rest.” She patted John’s shoulder fondly. “He seems like a real nice fella.”

“He is.” Sherlock felt inexplicably grateful to this woman for understanding John, for seeing the good person that Sherlock knew still lived in him. “He is the best person you could ever hope to know.”

“That's a really lovely thing to say. You must really care about him.”

“I love him.” Sherlock shocked himself. He had never said that out loud. Not even to John, _especially_ not to John. Yet it slipped out easily, to this stranger, this indiscriminate nurse. It felt calming to say, cutting through all of the complications and getting to say the only thing that really mattered. He was overwhelmed with the need to say it again. “I love him very much.”

“Good. I think he’s gonna need all of that love. He’s been through a lot.” She noted something on the chart hanging off the end of the bed. “I gotta finish my rounds, I’ll see you both later.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock didn’t know precisely what he was thanking her for, but it didn’t seem necessary to. He sank back trying to get as comfortable as he could, his tailbone bruised from a night spent sitting up on a thin mattress in the same position.

John stirred slowly, wincing and grumbling. He blinked drowsily a few times and looked up at Sherlock, confusion written in every line of his face. The spark of recognition and then something like fear flared in his eyes, and for a moment, Sherlock was sure John was going to scramble backwards and get as far away from him as possible. A mistake. This had all been some drugged reaction to seeing Sherlock again, and any second John was going to mutter a **_not gay_ ** and it would all be over.

Sherlock was actually removing his arm from behind John’s back, preparing to allow him this rejection, when John’s careworn face softened into a smile and he touched the fingers of his left arm, laying between them on the bed, to Sherlock’s thigh. “You _weren’t_ a dream.”

A flood of relief washed over Sherlock, and he had to close his eyes to breathe deeply and allow the reality of this moment to make a place in his memory. John waking up next to him. The first morning they’d woken up in the same bed. John’s mussed hair, his stale breath, how many times he blinked before he rubbed his knuckles across his eyes; Sherlock needed it all tucked away inside him, to never forget a single microscopic detail of how this felt.

“No. Not a dream.”

John’s eyes cast down at the sheets, and he sighed deeply. “I wasn’t sure. That you’d really be here. It’s still...really hard for me to believe. This isn’t going to be easy. Nothing about any of this is going to be. I have...I have a job to finish here. I have to. Or...there will be consequences. Ugly ones. Before anything else, before we can…”

John looked up at him, eyes drifting to Sherlock’s mouth. Well, there’s my invitation, Sherlock thought, and leaned forward. The angle was awkward, but John tipped his chin up, and Sherlock pressed their mouths together, his fingers softly resting against John’s throat. This kiss was different from last night. John wasn’t so hesitant, wasn’t so exhausted and drained. There was heat infused in this kiss now, and a shivery gasp exhaled through John’s parted lips into Sherlock’s mouth. A tremor curled over his scalp and down his neck, and he licked wonderingly at John’s tongue, not at all sure where they were going with this.

John closed his lips around the end of Sherlock’s tongue and sucked, and it was Sherlock’s turn to gasp. There was a tightness growing between his legs, and he knew they had to put an end to this, but the tingling in his groin seemed to be making it hard to think rationally. He had wanted this for so long, not dared to dream it would actually happen, that John would want him. The feeling John’s mouth on his own was earth-shakingly intense. John’s lips were so ruined, bloody and scabbed. Sherlock could feel every rope of shredded skin under his tongue. It was the most beautiful feeling. He didn’t think anything about John could ever not be beautiful again.

Then John’s hand was flat against his chest, pushing him back. He withdrew, half relieved that he wasn’t the one who had to choose to stop, and half disappointed that they were. “Alright?”

“More than alright. Amazing. It’s not that I...I mean I want to. God, I've wanted to forever. I just...I can’t...we can’t...I mean, I physically can’t.” John’s face was ruddy, his eyes a bit glazed. He bit nervously at the inside of his lip. “Nevermind that we’re in a hospital bed, I’ve got mob hitmen trying to kill me, and I still don’t know where the bloody hell you were for the last two years or why the fuck you faked suicide right in front of me and lied to me and left me to grieve. I’m grateful as _fuck_ to see you, don’t misunderstand, but I have a lot of questions and a hell of a lot of anger.”

“I know. I will answer every question you ask me, John. I promise.” Sherlock held John’s chin between his index finger and thumb and searched those blue eyes he’d been dreaming about for two years. They were bright with emotion. Sherlock couldn’t tell what John was thinking. “Will you answer me one?”

“If I can.” John looked wary, his head drew back, and Sherlock’s fingers slipped off his chin.

Sherlock cleared his throat, opened his mouth. He couldn’t seem to find the words. The question had been there, right there, a moment ago. Do you love me? Now, with John quiet and waiting, it was trapped behind years of bottled emotion, behind the certainty that he would never deserve John, that he was unworthy of anyone’s affections.

“Sherlock?” John tipped his head down, gave Sherlock that gentle nudging glance that he had so often at crime scenes when Sherlock was spiraling lost in his own deduction, and John needed to get him back on task.

“Do you - I mean to say, ask -” Sherlock couldn’t say it. He shifted, finally brought his arm out from behind John’s back, and templed his hands over his mouth and nose and rubbed. A comforting gesture, one that cleared his mind somehow, allowed him to focus on one thought, instead of the hundreds of words that were pummeling his neurons and trying to make themselves heard.

“It’s alright.” John’s hand came to his thigh again, squeezed.

God, why wasn’t John more angry with him? He had expected to be punched at least once, maybe knocked to the ground. Of course, John couldn’t physically do either of those things at the moment, but he expected fury. What he was getting was declarations of anger, couched in raw affection and warm kisses. He knew the storm had to come at some point. John Watson was simmering anger, a pot always ready to boil over, a fire that inexplicably relights when waters thrown on it. He was always right there, on the edge of rage.

It was unnerving as hell to not have John being furious. It didn’t make sense.

“Why aren’t you angrier?” That wasn’t at all the question he’d wanted to ask, but it seemed more pertinent.

John sighed, let his head tilt back, and looked up at the ceiling. He licked his lips, teeth dragging across the bottom one, in such a familiar gesture that Sherlock’s stomach clenched with the emotion of just being able to watch John do that again. He wanted to reach out and touch his face, but he restrained. He needed to hear what John was about to say.

“Well. I suppose some of it is I’m just really fucking tired, and a bit...afraid. I did almost get murdered and thrown into a lake a few days ago, so. My life has been such utter shit, Sherlock, I don’t think you can possibly...I’m _always_ angry. I’m the angriest person in the room, all the time. I hate everything. I hate everyone, and mostly myself.” He paused, nose twitching to the side, and blinked away tears. “I’ve been blaming myself for two years, Sherlock. I’ve walked around for two years thinking I failed you. That it was my fault you were dead. That I’d lost you before we could even…”

John made a horrible choked whimper, and Sherlock couldn’t not touch him then, twisting so he could slip his arm back behind his shoulders and gather John to his chest. He stroked his fingers down the side of his face and kissed his forehead.

“But you didn’t. You didn’t lose me.”

John thrashed angrily against him and growled low in his throat, but he didn’t pull away. “But I _thought_ I had. You made me think I had. And that thought tore.me.apart. I am in pieces, Sherlock. I don’t think you have any idea...you really don’t. What I’ve become. I hurt people. I _like_ to hurt people. I’ve broken men’s noses because I didn’t like how loudly they were breathing. I beat a guy unconscious for asking me to close the shade on the airplane window. I would never...I don’t know who I am, what the fuck I’m doing. I thought I was going to die. This was a suicide mission, Sherlock. I didn’t plan to make it home again.”

A cold hard stone dropped into Sherlock’s stomach. He hadn’t known that. Mycroft’s intelligence was good, but not good enough to see into people’s intentions, to see their hearts laid bare. Here was John’s heart, his misery and his anguish, laid in Sherlock’s hands to care for, and he didn’t know how.

“I had no idea. John. Apologies are so inadequate, but...I will offer them over and over again. I am so sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you.” Sherlock pressed his mouth against John’s hair and held them both there. “I will never lie to you again, I swear it.”

John exhaled loudly through pursed lips, then pressed his lips in a thin line. His hand clenched on the bed. “Sherlock, the truth is, I couldn’t live in the world without you, if I knew you were in it. I don’t know how to live without you. Even if I wanted to, I don’t know how. Which should be pretty fucking obvious by now. And I’m tired. I’m so tired of being angry and full of hate and venom. Everything hurts, and I really just want to lie here and have your arms around me for a really, really long time. So. I’m not going anywhere, but...I’m a fucking wreck, and I think I’m in a lot of trouble.”

“We’re always in trouble. That we know how to deal with. We’ll sort it out.” Sherlock kissed his temple and John pressed into him, seeking more. More comfort, more Sherlock, more confirmation that he wasn’t a figment of morphine and a concussion.

John sagged against Sherlock’s side, and allowed Sherlock to stroke his arm, his hair, his face. He didn’t say anything else, and they lay that way for what felt like forever, and not long enough. There didn’t seem to be any urgency on John’s part to hear Sherlock’s explanation, and Sherlock didn’t want to overwhelm him by just spilling out every detail. John sighed occasionally, made quiet humming noises, his fingertips lazily tracing figure eights on Sherlock’s thigh.

Finally, when the sun was fully up, bright and cold in the midwinter sky, Sherlock said, “I have to...I have to get up and use the loo and get some coffee. I’m sorry to disturb you, I just…”

John actually grinned, the tension leaving his face for a moment, and Sherlock thought he might disintegrate from the warmth that ignited in him at the sight of those blue eyes flashing with mirth. John reached out as Sherlock’s weight left the bed, and grabbed his hand. “Wait.”

‘I promise I’m not leaving.”

“I believe you. Though I’ve _no_ idea why. Where’s your phone?”

“Why?”

“Because I want to do something. You texted me, before, from all those strange numbers, and I knew, somewhere deep down, I knew it was you, but I wasn’t sure...and...I want you to text me. From your real phone. The way we used to.” John shook his head, and a ghost of the easy smile that Sherlock remembered passed over his face. “I know it’s stupid.”

A painful lump rose up in Sherlock’s throat. The motive behind this one gesture, the realisation that John some simple reminder of how they were before everything went to hell, touched a place in Sherlock he wasn’t even sure he’d known existed a few moments before. He felt gutted. He swallowed through it and knelt at the side of the bed, still holding John’s hand. He looked up into John’s face, so tired and bruised, but smiling. “It’s not stupid.”

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and ignored the slightly disturbing fact that Mycroft hadn’t gotten back to him in the night, and swiped it open.

_Good morning blue eyes._

John’s phone buzzed, still in his jeans folded on the chair. He stretched his hand toward it, IV lines trailing on the sheets. "Can you? I just want to see.”

Sherlock crossed the room and retrieved John’s phone, handed it to him. John opened it, his eyes glistening over as he read the text. He looked up at Sherlock, lip trembling. A tear slipped down his face and he closed his eyes, shaking his head.

He couldn’t bear to see John cry. Swooping down and wiping the tear away with his thumb, Sherlock kissed him again, murmuring into his mouth, “It’s alright, it’s alright.”

John kissed him back, his tears running salty between their mouths. John opened his lips, snaked a hand behind Sherlock’s neck and pulled him down, closer. Sherlock allowed John to direct the kiss, only reciprocating what John initiated. John huffed out a raw breath, and pushed his tongue hard into Sherlock’s mouth, nipped at his lower lip. Sherlock lost his balance as John kissed him deeper and pulled at his neck, bent over at such an angle, and had to brace himself with his hands on either side of John’s head.

John reached up with his other hand and pressed it flat against Sherlock’s ribcage. He tugged at him, panting softly and kissing Sherlock’s lips, his chin, licking at him almost frantically.

Sherlock pushed himself back and put three fingers over John’s mouth. John looked at him imploringly, tears still flowing silently down his face. Sherlock breathed in, willing himself to be the strong one for them both. John always was, had always been. The soldier, the stalwart presence with a cuppa in one hand and a Sig in the other. It was dawning on Sherlock now that John was truly unstable, swinging wildly between desperation and joy, anger and sadness. John need him to be the dependable one. A role he was sorely unaccustomed to filling.

“I know, John. I feel the same. But you’re very injured, and as you so succinctly pointed out, we have a lot to discuss.” Sherlock swept his lips over John’s brow and smiled in what he hoped was a comforting way. “Besides, I really do need to use that loo.”

John laughed a little, as Sherlock had hoped he would, and squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “Don’t go far, okay?”

“Promise.”

***

“So, Mr. Winston. You’re not going anywhere for at least three days. You’ve got a concussion, three cracked ribs, a possible spinal fracture, multiple bone contusions and lacerations that require IV antibiotics. You’re healing pretty fast for what you’ve been through, but you require rest and monitoring.” The doctor looked up at John, suspicion in his eyes. “You honestly have no idea who did this to you or why?”

“No, I really don’t.”

Sherlock was leaning up against the cold windows, hands templed over his mouth. John had just returned from a CT scan and an x-ray of his ribs, and was sitting upright in the bed with a cup of coffee from the hospital cafeteria. He sipped it, casting glances over at Sherlock as the doctor spoke. It was as if he expected Sherlock to disappear in a cloud of smoke at any second.

“Mmmm. Well.” The doctor flipped John’s chart closed and hung it on the end of the bed. This entire town was stuck in 1965. No one hung charts on hospital beds anymore. “I assume your, ah, friend, is staying to help you?”

“Boyfriend.” John said it so quickly that he talked over the end of the doctor’s sentence. He caught Sherlock’s eye, his own changeable ones indigo and flashing.

“None of my business. Don't need details. Just glad you have someone to help you out.” Looking distinctly ruffled, the doctor started for the door.

John watched him go and then turned to Sherlock darkly. “Homophobic arsehole.”

“You seem quite comfortable with the idea.” Sherlock crossed the room and perched on the edge of the bed. He brushed his fingers over John’s hand, and John threaded his fingers in between.

“Why shouldn’t I be?” John spat out. Then he breathed in deeply, and chewed at his lip. His eyes drifted away from Sherlock and fixed on the whiteboard of scheduled medications on the wall opposite. He pulled his hand away from Sherlock’s and rested it on his stomach. “Actually, we need to have a conversation, before I lose my nerve. And I need a cigarette for it. Open the windows?”

“Oh. I didn’t know you smoked.” Sherlock tried to cover his shock, to speak more gently than he normally would. John was so fragile. Sherlock felt it in every glance, saw it in every sad smile, every twitch of his eyelids. There were emotions between them too deep, too unfathomably deep, to even verbalise. They were talking around each other, falling into old patterns.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” John’s eyes slanted at Sherlock’s, his mouth tight, and for the first time since they’d reunited, there was anger in his face. “I keep telling you I’m not the same person, and you’re just not fucking listening.”

Sherlock fell silent. John was vibrating with barely controlled rage suddenly, and Sherlock had absolutely no idea why. Terrified to set him off, he crossed to the windows, creaked them open. He heard the click of a lighter behind him, and turned to see John with a cigarette dangling between his lips, eyes closed, taking a long drag. John had never smoked. John hated smoking.

_Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work.  
Good news for breathing. _

“Can I have one?” Sherlock firmly closed the hallway door, and sank into the chair beside the bed.

John wordlessly tossed the pack in his lap. They sat in silence, smoking, a frigid wind sweeping through the room. Sherlock got up and threw the Belstaff on, covered John with an extra blanket. He sat back down, waiting.

“I’m going to tell you something, and you’ll probably be completely disgusted with me when I’m done. I'm disgusted with myself. But, this...what we do...what we’ve always fucking done - lying to each other, keeping things from each other - it ends now. I won’t do it anymore, and you won’t either. It’s all or nothing.” John’s voice caught, and he looked at Sherlock, smoke billowing out of his nostrils. “And I can’t live with nothing.”

“Nor can I, John.” Sherlock tentatively reached out and laid a hand on John’s thigh. “I...I love you. I have always, and nothing you tell me will change that.”

John's laughter rang out harshly, bitter and seething. "We'll see."

He stared at Sherlock, and Sherlock refused to drop his gaze. He squeezed John's thigh, leaned forward and crowded into John's space, never breaking eye contact. "John."

"What?"

"Do you? Do you love me too?" He had to hear it.

"How the fuck can you ask me that? How dare you fucking ask me that? As if everything in my life wasn't a goddamn train wreck as soon as I met you. And I embraced it. I threw myself into your life, I didn't even have one outside of you. I spent two years waiting for you to SEE me there. To realise that...that I was just... _always there_." His anger died as quickly as it had flared, leaving John sinking back against the bed, looking drained. Lips pinched in a tight line, he shook his head disbelievingly and murmured in a low voice, "Do I love you? Are you fucking joking? Do you _SEE_ me right now, Sherlock? This. This fucked up disaster of a person right here - it's because I thought I lost you. You idiot. Yes. I fucking love you so much it almost _killed_ me. You complete dickhead."

The space between them was thrumming with the remnants of John's anger. Speechless, Sherlock just laid his forehead on John's leg. The warm press of John's hand settled on the nape of his neck, fingers idly sifting through his curls.

"John, I don't know how to make this right."

"I don't either." John twisted a single curl around his fingers, and then cleared his throat. "What I'm about to tell you, probably, um, won't help. But I just have to. Fuck."

Sighing heavily, John pulled his hand away and pushed at Sherlock's shoulder. "Sit up. I need to look at you."

Sherlock obliged, sitting up and clasping John's hand in both of his. "John, whatever it is --"

"You keep saying that, but you don't know what I'm going to say." John pulled his hand out of Sherlock's gently, fingers trailing over Sherlock's, and laid it on his stomach. Black and bruised against the crisp white hospital sheets, clenching and unfurling over and again. “Okay, so. I...oh, fuck. This is really impossible to say. I can’t. I just.”

Sherlock remained silent, his tongue stuck to his palate. Fear crouched in his stomach like a wild animal about to attack. He felt wholly unprepared for emotional confessions, unmoored. John was looking at him despairingly, his eyes stripped bare and wild with emotion.

Sherlock was the caretaker now.

He took John’s face between both his hands and leaned forward until their noses were almost touching. John’s eyes shifted away, and Sherlock tightened his grip on his head, digging his fingertips into John’s scalp just enough to get his attention.

“Look at me. John, look at me.” Sherlock’s words were skittering in his head, jumping over one another, jumbled. He didn’t know how to do this, to be this for John. He tried to think of what John would say, if he were himself. What John would do if their roles were reversed. “We’ve both -- we’ve both done horrible things -- because we had to, or because we didn’t know what else to do. I haven’t even, haven’t even begun to tell you what I’ve done. We’re both -- we’re both going to have to deal with what we’ve done to ourselves and to each other. You said all or nothing, and that you can’t accept nothing. Neither can I. So, just, just tell me, and then -- I don’t know -- I’ll tell you something horrendous that I’ve done, and there are many to choose from, believe me. We’re not perfect, John. We’re not even close, and we’ve never been. We’re two people who don’t like anyone, and very few people like us. We push and push, just to see how much we can take, how much other people will take before they can’t stand us. We break ourselves against the rocks just to watch ourselves bleed.”

John laughed ruefully, and Sherlock felt it reverberating through his hands, pressed tight against John’s jaw. “You’ve no idea how true that is, Sherlock.”

“Just tell me.”

“I have no idea how to say this. I’m so ashamed, Sherlock.” John tried to drop his chin, but Sherlock’s large hands cradled his head, holding it up.

“You need never be ashamed in front of me. _Never_ , do you hear me? John, goddammit.” There was a pull between them as strong as a line pulling a ship to shore, anchoring him to the man between his hands. Sherlock’s head tilted, he pushed forward, crushed his mouth to John’s, pulled the ruined raw flesh between his lips, tongue hot and insistent. Possessive.

John whimpered and returned the kiss fiercely, hands twining up into Sherlock’s hair. They licked and bit at each other, loss and grief and relief and frustration cresting between them. Like breaking the water’s surface after nearly drowning. Still kissing, tongues lapping at each other, Sherlock whispered _I love you I love you I love you_ , and John clung to his neck, kissing down across his jaw until he buried his face against Sherlock’s throat.

Sherlock rubbed his hands from the nape of John’s neck to his tailbone, the hospital gown rumpling under his fingers as they grazed over John’s bare skin. He would have been so shy, so unable to touch John this way before. Now there was no hesitation, his calloused palms bumping gently over each vertebra, fingertips sweeping over moles and scars. His hands belonged here. John leaned into his touch and sighed.

His voice was barely a whisper, shaking lips against Sherlock’s Adam’s apple. “I slept with prostitutes, Sherlock. A lot of them.”

Sherlock didn’t know what he was supposed to say in this dead air. Anything that didn’t sound like judgement, like a rejection. “Alright.”

“Male.” John was clearly struggling to talk at this point, his voice muffled completely in Sherlock’s skin, his face pressed so hard into Sherlock’s throat that he was having trouble swallowing.

A ripple of shock went through him at that, but he forced himself to not react, though his hands on John’s back shuddered still for just a moment. He knew that this conversation, right here,  was critical to everything that came after, and he must get it right.

“Alright.” He said again, voice even and measured.

“Because…” John was starting to shake, his voice trembling terribly. “Because they...I found ones that looked like you.”

“Alright.” He didn’t know what else to say. He was so inadequate to this task. John was the comforter, the quiet voice in the night, the steady hand in frightening places.

The dam broke then, John overcome with sobbing, mumbling _I’m sorry I’m sorry, I just missed you so much_. Sherlock gently nudged him over so he could lay beside him. He gathered him to his chest as he had the night before, and rocked slowly from side to side. It seemed like a comforting thing to do. John wailed and wept, his hands in fists against Sherlock’s stomach.

A nurse walked in, her brow furrowed in concern and looked at Sherlock with questioning eyes. Sherlock smiled in what he hoped was a dismissive way, and mouthed _It’s alright_. She looked suspicious, but left without interrupting.

The minutes stretched out. It was approaching late afternoon now, the sun low and orange on the horizon. The room was diffused with a yellow glow that reminded Sherlock palpably of Baker Street. He tried to pretend they were there, laying on the sofa together, a fire crackling merrily, kettle on the cooktop. They would be, as soon as Sherlock could make it happen.

John’s tears finally slowed, and he breathed shakily into Sherlock’s now wet shirt. Sherlock curled a hand into John’s hair, his wrist at an odd angle, but he didn’t care.

“John. I’m so sorry I put you through all of this, and that you have carried such a burden. You’ve done nothing wrong. I’m not angry at you, I’m not disgusted. At all. I’m a bit flattered, now that I think about it.”

John laughed hoarsely. He shook his head, and looked up at Sherlock with red-rimmed eyes. “You always make me laugh. Even when everything is utter shit.”

“I do pride myself on it.” Sherlock kissed John’s forehead and hugged him tightly. “You alright?”

John nodded slowly. “I feel better, actually. A bit.”

“Good. That’s enough of that for now. You’re weak, and that was...a long, hard conversation. It’s late, and you haven’t had anything to eat. Hungry?”

“Starving.”

Sherlock disentangled himself from John and fetched the wheelchair from the corner of the room. “You up for a little sightseeing to the canteen?”

“Is this our first date? To the hospital canteen? That’s a bit depressing.” John smiled at him, and even though it didn’t quite reach his eyes, Sherlock felt like a bit of their old rapport was reemerging.

“No. Our first date was quite a while ago. Don’t you remember?” Sherlock helped John swing his legs over the side of the bed, and wrapped his arms around John’s back as he lowered him into the seat. He put the IV tower in John’s hand and started out the door.

“No. Remind me.” John said softly. Sherlock could hear the smile on his face.

“Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths. Bit of trouble too, I bet. Wanna see some more?”

“Oh god yes.” John whispered.

 


	9. Wiped and Wired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More talking. Some kissing. John getting better.

_**Sherlock** _

Days passed in a vacuum. The world ceased to exist outside of the hospital routine of blood pressures being taken, nurses fussing with bandages and changing the sheets, _outings_ to the canteen, doctors consulting and humming approvingly or disapprovingly, MRIs and CAT scans. Sherlock never left; showering in the tiny stall in the loo attached to the hospital room, sleeping with John curled tight into his chest every night, wearing the same clothes day after day. On the fourth day, the kindly nurse with the ponytail whose name Sherlock could never remember offered to wash a change of clothes for him at her own home and bring them back that evening. She handed them to him with a knowing smile, and patted his hand in a way that reminded him forcibly of Mrs Hudson.

On the fifth day, the bandages came off John’s rib cage, his entire torso black and green, purple tinged around the edges where the bruises faded into pink skin. Sherlock touched the tender skin with questioning fingers, John leaning back in the bed and sighing. “Does it hurt?” “Not when you do that.” John’s eyes warm and soft, his hand trailing tingling and hot up the outside of Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock leaned in, John sighing against his mouth, and they kissed hot and hungry until a nurse came in and they broke apart, Sherlock leaping off the bed in mortification and John laughing until his ribs ached again and he had a coughing spell.

Laughter, heated kisses, something resembling happiness for a few moments. It happened, even there, in that bleak hospital room, in the middle of a country six thousand miles from where they belonged. But there were still secrets between them, and John didn’t seem eager to discuss anything serious, so Sherlock left it alone, afraid to upset him while he was still so broken. There was a tentativeness between them that hadn’t existed before, and for Sherlock it was like standing with his toes curled over the edge of a cliff. He knew he couldn’t keep his balance forever, and he wasn’t confident in which direction he was going to fall.

Not that he much cared about himself anyway. Sherlock's entire focus was John. Make John well. Make John happy. Take John home.

Sherlock slipped into the caretaker role with more ease than he imagined he could have. He _wanted_ to take care of John, viscerally and instinctually. It became his only purpose. John needed help shaving, showering. His legs shook terribly, his hands clutching Sherlock’s forearms every time they wobbled across the room to the bathroom and Sherlock eased the hospital gown off. John turned away, shoulders hunched. Sherlock tried not to look, not to allow his gaze to roam over John’s body, the curve of bone at his hip, ripple of muscle in his thigh, the blessed gunshot scar that was the reason they’d met in the first place. Sherlock had spent years imagining what that gunshot wound looked like, the knotted scar tissue, white and shining, the angry reddened flesh at the center. He wanted to touch it, memorise with his fingertips the evidence of what had brought John to him.  

“I _hate_ you seeing me like this. Weak.” He spat the words at Sherlock, angry and embarrassed.

“I know. But you’re not weak, John. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. This isn’t weakness, it’s just getting well.” Sherlock held John’s arm as he slipped past the blue vinyl curtain into the stall. John braced himself with one hand against the plastic shower surround and allowed Sherlock to reach past the curtain and wash his hair, scrub his back. Sherlock passed a sponge over John’s shoulders, over the scar, allowed his thumb to brush over John's skin. John shivered, and Sherlock tried not to notice how his hips hitched forward. Desire was coiled deep inside of them, desire that had been dormant for far too long, and neither of them was remotely ready for it to be fully unleashed.

Water rolled up Sherlock’s arms in rivulets, soaking his shirt sleeves. He sucked in a breath.

“This certainly isn’t how I envisioned it." John shook his head, rolled his eyes at the ceiling as Sherlock rinsed his hair with a plastic cup.

“Hmmm?” Sherlock smoothed his palm over the back of John’s head, squeezing the soapy water from it. John leaned forward, rested his brow against his bent forearm.

“The first time you, you know, saw me...without clothes. I envisioned more...sex. Less washing.” John opened one eye and looked at Sherlock. The ghost of a grin passed over his face.

“Well. We’re working up to it.” Sherlock smiled, held out a towel. “Come on and let’s get you dried off.”

John stepped into the open towel, hand still braced on the wall. Sherlock tucked it closed around John’s waist and slipped his left arm behind John’s bare back, still damp and warm from the shower. John seized his wrist, turned to Sherlock with a ferocity in his stormy blue eyes.

“I should have believed in you. I should have had more faith.” John nodded, chewing on his lip, and looked away.

“And I should have told you the truth.” Sherlock shuffled them over to the bed and eased John down onto it. John looked up at him, the vulnerability that had always lain beneath the bravado now open and bare in every line of John’s face. Sherlock ached for what they had done to each other, for the cost of being in love and being afraid of it. He brushed John’s wet hair away from his face. “Forgive me? Please?”

“I already have. You know I can’t stay angry at you. Never have been able to.” John tugged at Sherlock’s wrists, pulled him down until their lips met. John nudged at Sherlock’s mouth, his teeth against Sherlock’s bottom lip. His breath suddenly ragged. So hungry. So raw.

Sherlock broke the kiss, pulled away as John growled and dug his fingers into Sherlock’s neck to try and keep him there. His voice came out in a rasp. “ _Want you_.”

“I know. I want you, too.” Sherlock pushed John back against the pillows and stood up, swallowing down his own need with a shiver and trying not to look at the sheen of water on John’s bare chest. “But you’re quite the mess at the moment, if you hadn’t noticed. And we’re not exactly in the most private of places.”

John sank back, sighed heavily. “You’re right. I just. _God_. So long, Sherlock. So long.”

“I know. I do. Believe me.” Sherlock took John’s still bruised hand in his and kissed it softly. “Soon. Soon we’ll be out of here and this will all be behind us, and we can think about other things.”

John shook his head, gnawing on the inside of his cheek. “I don’t know, Sherlock. I don’t think it’s going to be that simple.”

“We will _make_ it that simple. Now. Where’s your razor?”

John pointed to the bag on the chair, and Sherlock fetched a bowl of warm water from the bathroom. He covered John’s legs with a blanket, and tried to sit on the edge of the bed. The angle was all wrong, his elbow twisted oddly to be able to reach John’s face without slicing into his skin.

“Come on then. I promise I won’t take advantage of you.” John nudged at Sherlock’s thigh, encouraging him to sit on his outstretched legs.

Sherlock hesitated.

“Promise. I’ll behave.” John’s eyes twinkled, the curl of his lip so endearingly familiar that Sherlock was entirely disarmed.

“Fine.” He handed John the bowl of water and the shaving soap. John held them steady as Sherlock gently placed a knee on either side of John’s thighs and slowly lowered his weight onto his legs.

“It’s alright. You won’t break me.”

“Won’t I?” They both knew he meant so much more than too much weight on fragile, healing bruises.

John swallowed. “No. You won’t. I promise.”

Sherlock sat back on folded legs, and set the bowl of water between them on John’s lap. John allowed Sherlock to tilt his head back, lather his neck, gently scrape the straight blade over his throat and his chin, hold his skin taut with two fingers as he shaved over his cheeks. “This is real trust, you know. How do I know you’re not skipping bits to make me look like a nutter?”

“You don’t.” Sherlock winked and smiled, set the bowl on the bedside table and wiped John’s face and throat gently with a washcloth.

John tilted his chin up and Sherlock bent down, kissing him softly. John’s arms encircled his neck, pulling him closer, gently winding his fingers into Sherlock's hair.

“You said you’d behave.” Sherlock murmured against his lips as John arched his hips up as much as he was able.

“Lied.” John’s voice sly and pleased, and he sounded so happy, so heart breakingly happy, Sherlock couldn’t protest as his face was dragged forward into a deep, hungry kiss.

***

Lester came to visit. John barely tolerated him, breathing hard through his nose and gnawing his lip. Sherlock herded him out after a half hour, watching out the window as he walked to his car and drove away.

“I almost feel like me again, and he reminds me that I’m not,” John whispered, tears welling up again. The marginally happy John of the morning had dissolved into hollow eyes and a sadness so palpable Sherlock felt like there was barely space in the room for him.  

“You are. You _are_ yourself.” Sherlock stopped and licked his lips, bit into the end of his tongue. “We just need to get you home. Away from this place. And you’ll remember yourself.”

John’s job here seemed through, Lester off the hook, his brother in prison and Malvo seemingly disappeared. Whatever loose ends he had to tie up could be done safely from London. They needed distance. “I should tell the police what I know. That Solverson deputy. I should talk to her."

“John, you _cannot._ You’ll incriminate the hell out of yourself. You talking to the police here is not a possibility right now.”

“I may not have a choice, Sherlock. I did get the living shit knocked out of me by two people who went on to have a bloody shootout with the police, one of whom managed to get his throat slit by another assassin,” His voice dropped and his hissed, “Who I happen to be working for. They might have some questions for me, Sherlock. Like, why on earth two mob hit men would be interested in a little Englishman who’s supposedly here for a nice relaxing holiday.” John watched Sherlock’s reaction, his eyebrows raised.

“If they want to talk to you, you play the unsuspecting victim. You have no idea why they targeted you. Don’t even suggest mistaken identity. Just nothing. They’re stupid, like Lestrade and Anderson and Donovan. They need a _me_ , and they don’t have one. You tell them nothing, and they’ll find out nothing.” Sherlock attempted to tamp down the panic rising in him at the thought of John incriminating himself. The thought of John alone. Here. In a jail cell. Sherlock struggled to control his breathing, maintain the fortitude that John demanded of him right now.

John noticed. Of course he did.

“You alright, Sherlock?” His voice laced with worry, undeserved.

“Yes. I’m fine.” He forced a tight smile onto his face, one he knew John would see through.

“Shit. Shit. This is all so fucked.” John rubbed his hands over his face and huffed. His head thunked back against the pillows and he shook his head as his eyes fell shut. “I have really fucked my life up, Sherlock. I don’t know how I can ever...go back. To how I was. Even if I don’t end up in prison for the fucking laundry list of crimes I’ve committed since I’ve been here, I don’t see how I can ever...have pride in myself again. Feel like I’m a decent human being.”

Silence enveloped them. John lay staring dully at the ceiling, gnawing the insides of his cheeks. Sherlock struggled to find the appropriate words. Words that wouldn’t wound, wouldn’t sound like a platitude. Finally, he cleared his throat. John didn’t look at him.

“John. Remember I told you once that heroes don’t exist?”

John’s mouth twisted into a sullen smile. “Are you going to tell me I’m your hero, because I really…”

“No. I’m not. Really, do you think I’d be that boring?” Sherlock sat on the edge of the hospital bed, his back to John, staring out the window into a blackening sky. Headlamps in the hospital parking lot swung back and forth, intersecting. They reminded Sherlock of torch beams, his and John’s footfalls pounding in dark cobblestone alleyways. He swallowed. “No, I was going to say, that’s true. You always thought of yourself as a hero, the bearer of some kind of moral standard that you could fail at upholding. You aren’t a hero, John. You’re not infallible, and you’re not morally incorruptible. You’re just a man. A good man, who’d done some dark things. You’re no different than you were before. You just _see_ yourself differently now.”

John’s hand pressed against Sherlock’s spine. He could feel each fingertip, the heel of his palm settled in his lumbar curve like it was made to fit there. “I want to believe you.”

“I love you.” Sherlock didn’t turn around.

John’s fingers contracted against his back. “I know you do. I love you, too.”

“We’ll...we’ll figure all this out when we get home. Let’s get you put back together first.” Sherlock turned, John moved to give him room. Sherlock stretched out, cradled John’s head against his shoulder, brushed his lips through his hair. “We’ll sort it out, I promise.”

“What about...what about Mycroft?”

“Yes. Mycroft owes me quite a few favours. I’ve been stacking them up.”

***

The seventh day, John could get up and walk without too much help. He hobbled to the chairs by the window, thin fingers gripping Sherlock’s wrist. The snow had abated, drifts five feet or so resting against the beige brick. Icicles were melting, carving deep holes in the piled snow below them. Sherlock lowered John carefully into the chair, and turned the metal knob that opened the window.

“You sure?”

“Yes. I have one left. I want to smoke it and then, that’s done. No more.” John looked down at his hands, twisting his fingers together. Sherlock waited. “You know it was just...it was just to have some part of you. Let some part of you in me.”

“But now I’m here.” Sherlock tried to keep his voice as even as possible, though John’s words sliced into him and burrowed, an ache he knew wouldn’t leave him, no matter how many years they had together. His fault. This was all his fault. John knew it, too, and Sherlock was just waiting for the day when all the seething fury exploded at him.

It wouldn’t be today, though. John nodded curtly, sucking on his teeth. “Right. You’re here. And I’m sick of these sodding things. This is the end.”

“Alright.”

Sherlock handed John his pack of cigarettes and lighter. Watched him as he lit it and took a deep drag, breathed it out into the frigid air. The air was so dense it was like a wall, and the smoke hit it, doubling back and forming a cloud around John’s head. He waved it away, looking sickened, and threw the rest of the cigarette out the window.

“I don’t even want it. God, that tastes like fucking arse.” He motioned for the tea still sitting by the bed from earlier in the day, repeatedly running his tongue over his front teeth and making disgusted noises.

“Necessary to be so dramatic about it, John?” Sherlock said with a tentative smile, handing John the cold tea.

“Necessary to be such a dick about it, Sherlock?” John looked up at him and grinned, something that was happening more often now. Those first days had been nothing but weeping and apologies, confessions and desperate kisses. While the desperate kissing showed no sign of abating, they were starting to regain some of who they’d been before. Some banter, a bit of hesitant teasing. John’s fragility lessened with each passing day, sometimes almost by the hour, the light and warmth slowly returning to his face. He’d gained some weight, eating hospital food and being sedentary, looked more like the John Sherlock remembered.

“Always.” They both laughed, just softly, still feeling round the edges of each other to see how sharp the other one was. Sherlock swept the pack of cigarettes off the table and threw them in the wastebasket. “There. No more smoking. Good news for breathing.”

John huffed, a knowing smile on his face. “That was a _lifetime_ ago.”

“Oh...not so long.” Sherlock sank down to the linoleum, between John's knees, brushed a hand over his cheek. "We'll be back there before you know it. As soon as you're released to leave hospital, we're going home."

"Home." John's eyes fluttered closed, he rolled his bottom lip into his mouth and bit it. Like he was tasting the word. "I have no idea what that would feel like."

Sherlock laid his head on John's lap, a gesture that he'd thought about so many hundreds of times since they’d met, imagined the comfort of it. John's strong hands in his hair, the warmth if his belly as he breathed. Sure enough, there was John's hand coming to rest on the curve of his skull, brushing his hair back from his temple. It was like a dream.

"Shall I tell you, John?"

"Tell me what?" John's voice lazy and soft with affection, his fingertip tracing Sherlock's cheekbone and then back to his ear, carding through his curls.

Sherlock thought he'd known how this would feel, to have this, to be allowed to touch John and be touched by John in all the ways he'd always wanted to be...but it was more wondrous, more soul soothing, and more frighteningly vulnerable than he could have ever imagined. There was such a fragility about this, about them, that made him lie awake for hours at night, watching John's eyelids flickering, watching his nose wrinkle, listening to his sleepy mumblings, just in case. He didn’t know what words came after just in case, but they felt frightening, whatever they were.

"What it would be like to go home. Because I haven't stopped thinking about it for a solitary second since..." Sherlock took a deep breath and sank deeper onto his heels, laid his arms alongside John's thighs. "We'll get a cab from Heathrow and ask him to drive us through the whole of London before we get to Baker Street. We'll get home in the early morning, when the sun is still low and orange, and the river will be shining and glimmering, the tide will be in and the water will be high. We'll roll down the windows and smell the water, and you'll reach across the seat of the cab and take my hand. We’ll have the cabbie drive up Regent Street right to the mouth of the park, and then turn left on Marylebone Road. Speedy’s will be closed, and there won’t be anything to eat in the flat, so we’ll stop at that Costa on Baker Street before we go home, and get coffees and breakfast rolls. When we get home, we'll stand on the kerb for a few minutes, just taking it in, seeing what's changed, how the stone's gotten just a bit sootier, the door a bit more scuffed. I'll make sure the knocker's crooked, and you'll laugh and tell me I'm ridiculous. I'll open the door, and we'll smell Mrs Hudson's breakfast cooking - rashers and eggs and tea - and the sunlight will be tumbling down the steps up to 221B, and you'll reach up and pull my face down to yours and kiss me, and it'll taste like airport coffee and unbrushed teeth and it will be perfect and we'll never want to stop. We'll walk up the steps, you in front of me, and I'll carry the bags. When we get in the flat, it will be dusty and stale and we'll throw open the curtains and the windows and run our fingers over every book, every old newspaper, every bit of clutter that's just as we left it. We'll sit in our chairs, and light the fire, and smile at each other, and you’ll make tea, and it will be as though we never left. Except it will be even better, because...we can say it now. Because loving each other won’t hurt anymore like it used to.  All this ugliness and being apart behind us forever. _That's_ what will happen when we get home."

John didn't say anything. Sherlock raised his head and looked up. John's eyes were closed, his lips trembling in a sad smile, tears running down his cheeks. His hand pushed gently at Sherlock’s head, easing it back down against his stomach.

He swallowed. "That was the most...you've been thinking about that _every day?"_

"Every day."

"Well that's exactly how it will be, then." John picked up Sherlock’s hand and threaded their fingers together. “I want to go home, Sherlock.”

“I know you do.” The emotion in Sherlock’s voice surprised even himself. “And I’m going to take you home. I promise you that, John. I will take you home.”

John eased himself back in the chair, stretched his legs out straight on either side of Sherlock. He swept Sherlock’s fringe away from his forehead and sighed. “This is all I’ve ever wanted, you know. Just you.”

“I know that now. I didn’t understand before, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“You should have trusted me.” John’s voice had dropped to a hush, his hand methodically smoothing Sherlock’s hair away from his face. It was midday, the light outside blindingly white reflected off the snow. It spread heat through the window, illuminating them like an incandescent light bulb. Like they were in an interrogation room. Sherlock felt bare. Stripped.

“That’s not easy for me, John. To trust people.”

“I’m not _people_. I’m yours. I was yours, even then, and you should have trusted me.” John’s voice ragged and harsh. His fingers tightened in Sherlock’s hair.

“I do now. I understand now.” Back muscles stiffening, preparing for it, waiting for the rage that was about to be unleashed. He very nearly winced, as if against a blow. John probably wouldn’t hit him, but it would feel like he had. Every angry word a laceration, a scar that Sherlock would bear forever.  He whispered again, “I’m sorry.”

John’s fingers relaxed. He was trembling. “ Shit. I’m -- I’m sorry, Sherlock. I know you went through something awful, too. I just wish…” A long exhalation wracked him, and when he spoke again, his voice was shaking like the rest of him. “I just wish I would have been allowed to protect you. I always did.I took care of you. _That was who I was_.” He thumped on his chest, an accompanying beat for each declaration. “You took it away from me. You took away who I was. Fuck. I’m sorry. I keep saying these terrible things to you and I’m trying to apologise.”

“Shhh. It’s okay.” Sherlock squeezed John’s fingers, gently, because they were still viciously bruised, and brought them to his mouth. “How about we agree on something?”

John bit out a clipped laugh. “Since when do we do that?”

“Very funny.”

“Trying out humour, seeing if it still fits.”

“Seriously, John.” Sherlock raised his head, his cheek still warm from where it had lain against the comforting rhythm of John’s blood pumping through his aorta. He took John’s other hand, and covered John’s smaller ones with both of his. Cradled them. “Listen to me. I don’t want us to be constantly apologising to each other. We’re going to have moments of anger, of confusion, and frustration. We’re...not the same people we were two years ago, and we have both been through our own separate hells. But I love you even more now than I did then, and you’re all I’ve thought about, and I can’t bear for you to apologise to me anymore. I understand how sorry you are, and I hope you understand how sorry I am, and I just...we keep saying the same things and there’s no need. Please, let’s just _stop_.”

“No more apologies?” John’s thumb traced over Sherlock’s bottom lip, his eyes dark and stormy grey.

“No more.”

“You could apologise to me a few more times. I’d be alright with that.” But John’s mouth twitched up at the corner.

A calm washed over him like a wave breaking on the sand. Tension he hadn’t even known was there evaporated, and he felt almost weak with relief. He pushed up on his knees and pressed his lips to John’s. John's hand cupped around the nape of his neck, thumb rubbing slowly.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” A nurse was backing out of the room, her cheeks red. “I’ll come back.”

“No, no. It’s alright.” Sherlock stood up and walked over to her, pushing the door all the way open. “Come in.”

“I just. I have Mr. Winston’s discharge papers. He’s ready to go home.” She smiled past Sherlock, at John still sitting in the chair by the window.

Sherlock followed her line of vision, at John bathed in golden sunlight. John in a hospital gown, his hair shaggy and his skin too loose on his frame. John, bright blue eyes shining with tears. John, who is the only person that’s ever mattered, and who loves him, and has forgiven him, and now they are going home. Where Sherlock will fix all of this.

“Sherlock.” John choked out, sniffing a little.

“I know, John. I _told_ you I’d take you home.”

“I just have some legal things for Mr Winston to sign, and then some instructions for you both about how to take care of those wounds until they’re all healed, the doctor will come in and talk to you and you boys are free to go. Another hour or so, alright?” The nurse sat down with John to go over the paperwork just as Sherlock’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

Sherlock put his hand over it, planning to turn the ringer off and sit down with John, but John waved him off. “Take your call, love.”

His mouth ticked up at the John-ness of that statement, and nodded. He stepped into the hallway and put the phone to his ear.

“Little brother.” Mycroft’s voice came through a significant amount of static.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock hated needing Mycroft. He hated it. But. Mycroft was useful, and loyal.

“You rang.”

“Yes. I need. I need help.”

“John’s gotten himself into a heap of trouble, hasn’t he?”

“Quite.”

“What do you need?”

“I need you to erase him. He was never here. Hotel receipts, GPS, bank transactions, whatever. Whatever evidence there is of John being in this country, make it disappear.”

“And if I can’t?”

“Don’t give me that, Mycroft. I know you can.”

"Well." Sherlock could hear the concession in his voice.

"I love him, Mycroft. He's everything to me. You _know_ that." 

“Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.”

“It’s not an option not to care about John.”

“So sentimental...my goodness, you _have_ changed.”

Sherlock swallowed the hundred vitriolic comments that were rising in his throat. “It’s John, Mycroft. Please. I wouldn’t ask for anyone else.”

There was a long silence.

“I’ll see what I can do. I can’t promise anything.”

“Just tell me when it’s done. We’ll be in London by tomorrow night.”

“Safe travels, little brother.”

Sherlock clicked his phone off without saying goodbye. He had to get John home. Just get him out of this horrible place, and it would all disappear. It would just. Go away.

It had to.

He went back in the room and stood behind John’s chair, put his hands on his shoulders, sharp bone against his palms. The nurse was explaining how to dress the cuts on his abdomen, and John was nodding patiently. He swiveled his head to look up at Sherlock, his eyes dancing. He mouthed “I’m a _DOCTOR_.” Sherlock’s face split into a wide grin, and he chuckled softly, kneading John’s shoulders and neck.

They were going to be alright. Sherlock would make sure of it. John had always been there for Sherlock, and now it was his turn. Now it was his turn. 


	10. Your Warm Skin in My Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock make it home, but nothing's easy for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO. MANY. THANKS. to caitlinfairchild for beta-ing this for me. I was struggling with some writer's block, and she really helped me sort this chapter out.

_**John** _

The door was the same. Weathered and black, streaked with years of rain soaked soot, the knocker crooked to the left just like John always left it. The stone and bricks were the same, chipping mortar and gaping cracks. Damaged and weather beaten, but still standing. The windows, God, the windows through which they had watched so many moments of their lives about to happen. The curtains hadn't even been changed. Rain dripped steadily off the canvas awning over Speedy's rickety tables. A car flew past much too fast for the small street, and John watched it turn onto Marylebone Road, past the tube stop and the Nando's they used to eat at when it was too late and they were too tired to go anywhere else.

If John just closed his eyes, breathed in. Got lost in time for a moment, let himself pretend that they were just coming home from a holiday in the countryside, that they'd been away from Baker Street for a long weekend. Wet concrete, the faint odor of rubbish from the bins in the alley, bacon cooking and coffee brewing. Familiar. Achingly familiar. He had never planned to stand on Baker Street again, surrounded by memories so visceral that they had weight and density. Surrounded again by the life he and Sherlock had made. Made and then abandoned, the remnants of it like a cancer eating away at him every day for two years.

John had never intended to be here again. Death was going to find him. That was the plan. For the second time in his life, Sherlock found him before death had. 

 _So what were we doing there?_  
_Oh, just passing the time. And proving a point._  
_What point?_  
_You. Mrs Hudson! Doctor Watson will take the room upstairs!_  
_Says who?_  
_Says the man at the door._

Sherlock's hand brushed his sleeve. "John?"

His heart was suddenly pounding with anxiety. He wasn't this person anymore. He just wasn't. He no longer belonged here. His throat clogged with emotion, acidic and burning. 

"I can't do this." Choking on his words, he stumbled backward, tripped off the kerb into a parked car, and leaned against it. His chest was heaving. He couldn't breathe.

Sherlock's eyes widened, bright with worry in the struggling winter light. He raised his hands in a calming gesture, palms outstretched toward John. The panic was blinding, blurring that beloved face into every prostitute he'd ever used, their pink hands and black curls, their faces a mash of bitten lips and desperate noises. He shook his head, tears spilling over, and tried to make himself see Sherlock as he really was. He couldn't. He gagged, tasting tobacco and sour sweat on his tongue.

Sherlock reached out, and John waved at him frantically, tried to say _No, don't,_ and couldn't. He really could not breathe. 

John swallowed, and plastered a smile on his face. Maybe if he just -- pretended. He breathed deep through his nose and looked up, met Sherlock's worried expression with his own false smile. "I'm okay. I'm fine."

"John. You're having a panic attack. John, just breathe." Sherlock's voice sounded distant, echoey and tympanic.

"I fucking know that, Sherlock! I'm a goddamned doctor." He snapped, and winced immediately at the hurt that flashed in Sherlock's eyes. The searing burst of anger cleared the fog of panic for a moment. "Shit. Fuck. I'm sorry. I'm fine. I'm _really_ fine."

Soft smile, furrowed brow. "It's alright. Let's get you inside."

God, the last place he wanted to be was in that doilied and flowered hallway, heavy with the scent of twenty years of Mrs Hudson's cooking. "No. Just. I need to. Just stand here. Just for a minute."

Sherlock hovered, hands still outstretched. "Are you sure?

"Yes, I'm sure. I'm great. Just. Taking in all in." Rain was pouring frigid down inside the collar of his coat, icy on the back of his neck. Like a cold shower, waking him up.

He looked at Baker Street, at Sherlock standing there rain drenched and beautiful, curls sopping wet round his eyes, right where he's supposed to be, and not dead. Several people had gathered under the awning next door, cradling steaming takeaway coffees and now staring at John.

 _Fuck off_ was right on the tip of his tongue, but he could feel Sherlock's eyes on him and he swallowed it back. Trying to be the old John. Old John would not shout at strangers. He smiled again. "Okay. I think I can -- Let's go inside."

"You're sure?" Sherlock stepped forward hesitantly, took John's elbow. Strong fingers encircled the bone, and John pulled himself gently out of Sherlock's grasp, slipped his hand down his arm and took his hand instead.

"Yeah. I don't want to be gawked at like a fucking monkey at the zoo." John forced himself not to flip off his audience, pressed his palm against Sherlock's palm and pulled him toward the door. "Come on, we're getting drenched."

Sherlock unlocked the door with one hand, his arm unwaveringly tight round John's shoulders. They turned sideways so as to both fit through the doorway while still holding hands, and Sherlock closed and locked the door behind them.

Baker Street. _Home_. 

Christ. The grief hit him like a punch to stomach. He hadn't been in this foyer since the day he told Mrs Hudson he couldn't do this anymore, not without Sherlock. The day she'd cried and begged and told him he'd always have a home here, and he went off to his suicide mission with bloody knuckles and blackened lungs. It was months ago, and felt like decades.

It was as if Sherlock wasn't standing beside him, warm and solid and breathing. The loss of Sherlock, of himself, everything that had happened since came crashing down on him in a suffocating wave. That was his life. Motels and misery, prostitutes who stole his money and half his soul. His own bloody arms in the dark. 

Not this. He didn't deserve this. He'd forsaken this comfortable, good life with people who loved him for something dirty and debauched. He didn't deserve to be standing here. His chest closed tightly. He couldn't get any air suddenly, black spots swimming in front of his eyes. John's knees buckled without warning and he grabbed at the lapels of the Belstaff as he felt himself sliding to the carpet.

"John. I've got you, it's alright." Sherlock's hands closed round his biceps and dragged him upright, "Listen. You _are_ going to pass out. I'm going to get you upstairs in the most expedient way. Don't be - don't be _offended_ , alright?" Sherlock's voice was tight with concern.

Before John could find his voice to ask what he could be offended about, Sherlock was slipping an arm behind his knees and hoisting him up so he was laying in the cradle of Sherlock's arms. He leaned backward so John's weight was centered, and turned sideways to walk up the steps to 221B. 

"Sherlock, put me down. Put me the fuck down, seriously." John wriggled and tried to arch his legs over Sherlock's arm. His head spun. 

"No. We just have to get you somewhere to lie down." Sherlock started climbing the steps slowly. Every creak resounded through John's head, thunderously painful. He felt sick again. Sick and humiliated and furious. "Just fifteen steps. Surely soldiers carry injured comrades more than fifteen steps, yes? Nothing to be ashamed of. Now hold on to my neck, alright?"

 _Injured comrade_. The Sherlock-ness of that cut through the embarrassment, brought a slow smile to John's reluctant lips. He buried his face against Sherlock's damp neck and tried to breathe. They stepped onto the landing, and Sherlock didn't put John down. He nudged the unlocked door to the flat open with his shoulder and made his way to the sofa before bending down and carefully lowering John into it. 

John found he didn't so much care that Sherlock had just carried him up the steps like a child, not now, when he was sitting here, dripping rainwater all over the sofa in 221B, the flat looking exactly as it had the day he'd left. Sherlock's chemistry set still on the table, Sherlock's dirty coffee mug from that last morning before it all went to shit sitting mouldy and ruined on the desk next to John's laptop. He'd never been able to move a thing. It had felt too much like he was erasing Sherlock.

Sherlock's clothes had never left his tidily arranged drawers, his suits and pressed shirts all hanging in his wardrobe. His deodorant and hairbrush on the dresser, the book he'd been reading open on the pillow. John had sat on the side of Sherlock's bed so many sleepless nights, staring at that stupid bloody periodic table on the wall, brushing his fingers down the spine of _The Case of the Vanishing Honeybees: A Scientific Mystery_ ,  half laughing through the tears dripping into his mouth. He had that room memorised. 

A calm descended over him. John couldn't be upset here, not in this flat where he and Sherlock had made their life. 221B was Sherlock sleepy and soft, smiling at John with the summer sun streaming in the windows. It was cold autumn mornings by the fire, and making dinner together, John doing the washing up while Sherlock yelled at him from the sitting room about some awful reality television show, cigarette smoke wafting lazily in the kitchen window as Sherlock snuck one on the fire escape after he thought John was asleep. It was everything that had ever been good in his life. 

"God." He breathed. The lump in his throat felt like a boulder. "We're home, Sherlock. We're actually home."

Sherlock perched on the edge of the sofa, his smile tremulous and unsure. "Yes. Home. I even carried you over the threshold."

John huffed a small laugh. "Very traditional of you. You fucker. I could have walked, you know."

Sherlock didn't laugh. "Are you alright? Do you want to lay down?"

John swallowed, saliva sliding thick down his tensed throat. "No. I am _fine_ , Sherlock. I just had a moment. I'm sorry I shouted at you." 

"Don't apologise. It's completely unnecessary."

Sherlock's smile turned tender and reached into his eyes. He set a hand on John's knee and squeezed. "Let's get you into some warm clothes and put on some tea."

"Sherlock, there's nothing. I mean the food's all gone off, I haven't been here in months."

"John, I called Mrs Hudson last night. I think I nearly gave her a coronary initially, but she recovered quickly enough. She knows everything." Sherlock frowned. "Well, actually, she knows virtually nothing, because I can't really tell her anything about what happened to either of us while we were gone...but she knows I'm alive, and she knows we're together, and I told her that her boys were on their way home and could she please actually be the housekeeper for just the one day and tidy the flat and buy us some food. She readily agreed." 

"Oh. Yeah. Of course you would have done that. I'm sorry." What an idiot. To have thought the food would still be rotting in the fridge? God, what was wrong with him? 

"John." Sherlock was gently reproachful. "John, there's nothing to be sorry for."

"That was a moronic thing to say." 

"It wasn't. Stop that." Sherlock knelt down and put three fingers under John's chin. Aquamarine eyes search John's indigo ones, his mouth soft. "It's fine."

"It's like I don't even know what I'm saying sometimes." 

"I know." Sherlock rocked up and put his mouth to John's briefly, and then stood up. "This is difficult. Coming home. It's difficult for me too. So just...please don't apologise. We promised we weren't going to do that anymore, remember? I'm going to get you some dry clothes now. Don't move."

"Alright." John leaned back into the cracked leather and his eyes roam the flat. Now that he really looked, it was obvious Mrs Hudson had cleaned. It wasn't dusty - well, any dustier than it usually was anyway - and there was a vase of fresh flowers sitting at the end of the mantle on top of a pile of books. She hadn't moved Sherlock's mouldy coffee mug, though. Probably picked it up and dusted the disgusting thing. She always knew, somehow, even in her frenetic dottiness, exactly what both John and Sherlock needed. 

God. Mrs Hudson. Billy the skull. Sherlock's chem set. Blogging on that ancient laptop. Doctor Who nights that always began with Sherlock grumbling and ended with Sherlock's feet tucked under John's thigh while he tore apart the pseudo science of the episode, as John watched him with affectionate eyes and a hungry heart. Greg's footsteps thundering in the hallway. John wandering into the sitting room in nothing but pants and a dressing gown to find Mycroft sitting prim in Sherlock's chair on a Sunday morning. It all seemed like someone else's life. 

He didn't know whether the last two years were the nightmare, or whether this was the dream. 

Sherlock reemerged, carrying John's old oatmeal jumper, a pair of soft jeans, a folded pair of grey trousers, a button down, and a few towels. He set a towel and John's clothes down next to him. "Come on, let's get dried off, and then tea."

John wrenched his gaze from the fireplace, where he'd been staring into the blackened brick. Tea. Tea was simple. "Yes, alright. I'm sorry this is so - I should be happy. I should be happy to be home. I _am_ happy to be home. I just. _Shit_."

"John, this is all -- new, for lack of a better word." Sherlock snapped open a folded towel and rubbed his wet hair. He threw the Belstaff over the back of a desk chair and began unbuttoning his shirt. "This is going to be - different. Or I imagine it will be. This is very much like starting over."

"Yeah." John couldn't take his eyes away from Sherlock unbuttoning his wet shirt. His hair was in half dried tendrils, fluffy and soft. His wet trousers clung to every curve of muscle and hollow of bone. Sherlock's body was different. Stronger. He hadn't seen Sherlock undressed since their reunion. As Sherlock slipped his tee shirt over his head, revealing a taut hardened belly and thick biceps, John realised he was licking his lips.

Sherlock clearly felt him staring. A soft pink blush started on his cheeks and rushed down his neck. John could feel the heat burning in his eyes. God, he was all over the place. Ten minutes ago, he was in the midst of the worst panic attack he'd had in two years, now here he was, half hard in his rain soaked jeans, wondering if there were sheets on the bed.

The bed. The singular bed. Their bed.

"Sherlock. Did you - ? You brought my clothes out of your bedroom." John pulled a towel over his hair, averted his eyes as Sherlock kicked off his wet trousers. 

"I, ah, also had some rearranging done. I asked Mrs Hudson if she could -- Just a little. Just your clothes, really. Oh, and I think she had the neighbours move your side table down from your old room."

"My old room." John put the towel aside, his eyes fixed on Sherlock's hands working the button through the buttonhole.

"Well, I just assumed - " 

"Of course you did. And you were right." John breathed out in a rush. He cleared his throat and looked down at his hands.   

Sherlock's eyes went bright, and he looked away, blinking. "Good. I like being right. So, you'll be sleeping -- "

"In your room. Our room."

Sherlock nodded almost brusquely, and then allowed himself a small grin. "Good," he said again, his eyes on John's mouth.

"Well," John cleared his throat again, "Now we've established that. Tea?"

Sherlock nodded and pulled his clean button down over his arms. "Yes. I'll put the kettle on." 

John got dressed while Sherlock was in the kitchen, tossed his rumpled wet clothes into the hallway, and settled down in his chair. The springs dug into his thighs as a cloud of dust rose round him, and settled calm and right in his lungs, seeped through his pores and into his bloodstream. This godawful, uncomfortable, cheap armchair which should have been put in a jumble sale for ten quid twenty years ago. This _horrible_ chair. _His_ horrible chair. Just the musty smell of it was a salve on his raw nerves. He closed his eyes and leaned back, listening to it creak and complain. 

"Oh, shut up." He murmured fondly, rubbing his palms over the armrests.

"I didn't say anything." Sherlock said, a smile in his voice. 

John smelt the tea before Sherlock set the cup on the side table. He opened his eyes, watched as Sherlock lowered himself into his own chair. A warm happiness rose in his chest and he didn't fight it, letting it expand through his ribcage and his throat; sunshine on the first day of spring. He stretched out his legs, covered Sherlock's socked feet with his bare ones.

"Welcome home, Sherlock." He curled his toes into the tops of Sherlock's feet, picked up his mug, and sighed. 

"Welcome home, John." Sherlock smiled so softly and fondly, his eyes alight with warmth, laugh lines crinkling round his mouth. He looked happier than John ever remembered him being.

“You look happy.”

“I am. You do, too, you know.” Sherlock rubbed his toes against John’s ankle bone and leaned back in his chair with a hum.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, sipping their tea and rubbing their feet against each other gently. John felt pleasantly drowsy, his eyes heavy. He set his chin in his hand, wishing half heartedly that there was a fire going, and let his eyes close. 

He must have drifted off, because suddenly there was Sherlock tugging on his hands, looking at him with unguarded affection, his face all soft lines and yellow light. Sherlock pulled him up to standing, and then down the short hallway to what was Sherlock's room, and was now their room. John followed, too sleepy to be anything but docile and cooperative. 

"I think I need a nap." He mumbled, as Sherlock pushed him onto the bed by his shoulders and laid him back.

"Yes, I quite agree. You're still recovering physically, and emotionally it's been a difficult morning. Also, you'll have some jet lag, I expect, after being in America so long. " Sherlock tucked the blankets over him, and patted his leg. "Sleep, John."

He grabbed for Sherlock's hand. "Where are you going?"

"Just into the sitting room." Sherlock squeezed his hand, covered it with his other.

"No. Stay with me." He couldn't bear the thought of sleeping alone, waking without Sherlock right next to him. He hadn't slept alone since Sherlock came back. 

Sherlock shook his head. "Of course. Of course I will."

John wouldn't let go of his hand. Sherlock put a knee on the bed, carefully lifted his other leg over John's thighs, and crawled over him until he was able to lie down behind him. Sherlock's knees tucked into the back's of John's knees, his left arm stretched over a too thin waist, their fingers tightly entwined. Sherlock's nose was in his hair, and soft lips at his neck. 

"Go to sleep, John. I'm not going anywhere."

"Never again." John wasn't even sure he said it out loud - so heavy and warm in the cradle of Sherlock's body, his back pressed tight against Sherlock's stomach, that he was half asleep already - but Sherlock hummed and wriggled closer in response, tucking a foot in between John's ankles. 

"No, John. Never again." Sherlock kissed his hair, his neck, the helix of his ear, pressed their joined hands against the rise and fall of John's chest. "No matter what."

***

When John woke, Sherlock wasn't in bed. The surge of anxiety that swept through him was cut short by hearing the quiet hum of Sherlock's voice in the sitting room. He breathed evenly through his mouth and flopped back on his back, stretching stiff calves and an achy back. 

It was dark. He rolled his neck and peered at the bedside clock. 9:08pm. Christ, he'd slept the entire damn day. No wonder Sherlock had gotten out of bed. 

He swung his legs out of the blankets, and walked quietly into the hallway. Sherlock's voice sounded urgent, strained. The kitchen was dark, all the lights off. Shadows danced and winked across the green walls, the fireplace crackling merrily and casting light across the tiny flat. John hovered in the hallway door, out of the light. Listening. 

"...Mycroft. I've told you already. I don't know any Malvo. I met some weasley little man named Lester. That was it. No, John and I haven't discussed it...well, he's a bit fragile, Mycroft. Yes, fragile. Shall I spell it out for you? He had a small panic attack when we got home this morning, and he's been asleep for nine hours." Sherlock paused, pacing. He went and leaned a hand on the mantel, his silhouette tense and agitated, shoulders in a tight line. 

John shrank into the hallway. He tried to breathe more shallowly, quivering with the need to hear what Sherlock and Mycroft were discussing. Mycroft knew about Malvo. There had to be a reason he was asking Sherlock about it. 

"John and I have discussed very little, if you want the truth, dear brother. So no, he doesn't. He'll find out in time, when we're both ready. It's none of your concern, that's our private matter, alright?" Sherlock's voice rose, and he carded one large hand frantically through his curls, tugging on the ends. "Don't come here, Mycroft. John's not...we don't need company right now. I''ll come to you. Mrs Hudson can watch after him."

 _Watch after him._ As if he's a dog that pisses on the floor when no one's home. Hot anger mingled with humiliation gripped the back of his throat, his jaw. His hand clenched. How Sherlock must hate this. Hate him.

"Tomorrow then. Yes." Sherlock tossed his phone at the sofa and sighed heavily, rubbed his hands over his face. He looked troubled in a way John had rarely seen him. "John. I know you're there."

"How long have you known I was here?" John eased himself into the light, but stayed in the kitchen.

"Not long. You've gotten quieter. That's a skill that will come in useful when we get back to casework."

"Ha. Casework. Yeah, right. You can't even leave me by myself in the flat, apparently." It came out bitter and furious. He didn't apologise.

Sherlock sighed and breathed out through his mouth like he was exhaling smoke. He came into the kitchen, unhesitatingly reached for John's hand and pressed his thumb into the hollow of John's wrist. "That's _not_ what I meant. You heard less than half the conversation, John. Don't - don't think I'm pitying you. I am not."

John rolled his eyes, twisted his tongue between his teeth, and thought better of voicing all the vitriolic words that were coursing through his mind. Sherlock watched him, looking apologetic, but didn’t say anything. 

"How does Mycroft know about Malvo?" The emotional honesty they'd shared so easily in Bemidji was less so here. Here it was real. Here they had to deal with the aftermath. 

Sherlock pressed his lips together, closed his eyes. His thumb stroked the inside of John's wrist. "John. He's - he's connected to Moriarty somehow. Mycroft's not got all the details yet, but -- "

"Jesus fuck - did that arsehole have the _whole fucking world_ working for him?! Christ."  John exploded, whirling out of Sherlock's loose grasp and walking past him into the sitting room. "Are you fucking serious?"

"I'm sorry to say that I am." Sherlock followed, arms crossed over his chest. He looked exhausted, angular face rife with shadows, his eyes ringed with grey. 

"Did you get any sleep today?" John snapped, meaning to sound concerned, and sounding irritated instead. 

"You know I don't need much." Sherlock was being excruciatingly patient with him. 

John sighed and flopped on the sofa. His stomach was growling, and his head hurt, and everything in their fucking lives led back to that wretched piece of shit Moriarty, and all he wanted was to sleep it all away. His eyes burned.

"I thought you were hunting down Moriarty's network for the last two years."

"I was."

"How did you never hear of him?" He hated how accusatory he sounded. 

"That's what Mycroft and I were just discussing. We're unclear of his precise associations - sufficed to say for now that he's a recipient in a money trail that begins with Moriarty, and involves dozens of criminals across Europe and the United States. I'll be meeting with Mycroft tomorrow to discuss it more in depth, and hopefully his people will have dug up more information by then."

"Is that why Malvo recruited me?"

"Yes, I think we can be one hundred percent certain that's why he recruited you. To what end? I have theories, but..." Sherlock tilted his head back and forth, sucked his teeth. He sank heavy next to John, his long legs folding so their knees touched. 

John sighed and twisted, wrapping half of his body over half of Sherlock's, leaning them back into the sofa. Sherlock made a small startled noise initially, but reciprocated, tucking his arm behind John's shoulder blades and pulling him close. He put his mouth against John's hair. John crooked his leg over Sherlock's thigh and pressed his face into Sherlock's shirt, breathed him in.

"I have no fucking idea what's happening with me, Sherlock." He didn't think that was what he'd meant to say, but he wasn't sure. 

"I know." Sherlock's hand pressed between his shoulder blades, in the dip of his spine, against his hip. They stayed that way for many minutes, Sherlock stroking John's back, John trying to get _closerclosercloser_. 

"I don't want you to have to take care of me." John whispered finally, and tucked his face practically in Sherlock's armpit, muffling the end of his sentence. 

"John." Warm fingers touched the side of his face, traced his ear and his temple. Sherlock took a deep breath. "I think you should call Ella and make an appointment."

All the resistance he thought he should feel at that just wasn't there. He wanted to say he was fine, he could handle it, he'd had worse, but he knew Sherlock was right. He burrowed tighter into Sherlock's side, curled his foot between Sherlock's calf and the sofa. "I'll call tomorrow morning. While you're with Mycroft, and Mrs Hudson's babysitting."

Sherlock ignored the snide remark. "Good. Now, let's get you fed. I can actually _feel_ your stomach growling."

***

Ella wanted to see him immediately. She had an appointment free at 1:00, could he make it? 

He texted Sherlock.

_Appointment with Ella at 1:00. Don't worry if I'm not home when you get back._

Sherlock replied nearly as soon as John had finished hitting send.

_Sure you're alright on your own? I can come home._

John hated how much he wanted that, how much he wanted Sherlock beside him, holding his hand in the cab, solid and warm.  

_I'm fine. I promise._

There was a long pause before Sherlock wrote back.

_No. No, I'm coming back. Don't leave until I get home._

John knew it was pointless to argue, and he wanted it anyway. 

_Yes, okay. I'll be here with thermoses of coffee. Love you._

Sherlock's reply was immediate.

_Love you too, blue eyes. See you soon._

Mrs Hudson rattled out of the kitchen while John was still staring at the text with a crooked grin. She laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "Sherlock going with you?"

"Yes."

"Good, I think that's best. With all this going on, whatever you two are always up to, I think you should stay together." Her voice shook as she perched on the arm of John's chair. She cupped the side of his face, tears swimming in her eyes. "I still can't believe it. Sherlock alive, and you both here together. Really together. It's a miracle, John. It really is."

He put his hand over hers and smiled against the softness of her palm. "It is. You're right about that, Mrs Hudson."

Mrs Hudson looked just the same as she ever had, hair perfectly coiffed, makeup completely done first thing in the morning. She put her hand over her heart. “I knew, that you both were back, I mean Sherlock had rung and I could hear you upstairs, yesterday. I wanted so badly to come up, but I knew. Knew you needed your time. It does my heart good to see you, though, John Watson. Even if you look an absolute fright."

It makes him laugh, her motherly honesty. “Better than the last time you saw me.”

“Well. Yes.” John couldn't help his apologetic smile as she bent over to cradle his face between her hands and plant a kiss right in the center of his forehead. They had taken care of each other, after Sherlock died. They’d eaten together, crammed side by side at her tiny kitchen table, or knee to knee with plates balanced on their laps as they watched the evening news. As John just disintegrated, she’d tried so hard to keep him together, bringing him food and doing his laundry and cleaning the flat for him, as much as he’d let her.

She patted his face, and then wiped at her own eyes with her apron. "That pie's about done. I'll put on the coffee."

"Mrs Hudson, how do you put up with us? We always bring you so much trouble and worry."

"What a ridiculous question, John Watson! I don't put up with either of you. I _love_ you, for goodness sake." She planted her hands on her hips and shook her head. "What a thing to say to me."

John bit back a laugh, stood up and put his arms around her. "We love you too."

She hugged him back and then swatted at his arm with a tea towel. "Enough of that. Now go get dressed while I'm getting the pie out. You can't go out of the house in your pyjamas and slippers."

John shuffled into the bedroom and kicked off his pyjama bottoms, pulled his tee shirt over his head and considered himself in the mirror. He was covered in scars, missing a few fingernails, bruises still fading across his chest and arms. He was thinner than he'd ever been in his life, the ever present pudge around his face gone, his collarbones prominent and his belly nearly concave. His old gunshot scar stretched tight over a newly angular shoulder. His eyes met his reflection's, and they looked surprisingly content, calmer than he felt. He blinked, watched his lashes brush against his eyebrows. 

"John!" Mrs Hudson called, "There's hot lunch and coffee out here for you."

"Coming, Mrs Hudson!" He opened a drawer, his jeans folded neatly next to Sherlock's few pairs. The sight of it brought a lump into his throat. So arbitrary, his emotions. He had no idea what to do with himself.

He pulled on a pair of old, soft jeans that were now too loose, one of his old army tee shirts and a thick maroon jumper that Mrs Hudson had given him a million years ago for Christmas. She smiled when she saw it, and they shared fish pie and salad at the breakfast table between the sitting room windows. Sherlock flew in the door as they were finishing cups of coffee, and dropped a casual kiss on the top of John's head. Mrs Hudson clapped her hands together, her eyes bright, and they both hugged her before they left. 

Sherlock held the cab door open, and John slid in, his jeans catching briefly on ripped vinyl upholstry. They assumed their customary positions, both of them looking out their respective windows. It was such a simple moment, it shouldn't have meant anything really. Somehow it meant _everything_. John smiled against the window glass, let his leg inch over until it was resting against Sherlock's. 

It wasn't until they were halfway to Ella's office that John asked Sherlock about the meeting with Mycroft. John didn't look away from the window as he spoke. He too mesmerised by London. He wanted to drink in every postbox and stoplight, every Pret a Manger and Brookstone's, every single overflowing bin, every mundane damn thing that he'd never even bothered noticing before. The whole goddamned city was gorgeous to him. He hadn't realised how desperately homesick he was until he was back.

"Mycroft's people turn up anything overnight?" he said, watching a clot of confused tourists stumble back onto the kerb as a bus careened past them. 

"I think we should wait to talk about this until you've done your session." Sherlock's hand brushed his on the seat.

John slipped his fingers under Sherlock's palm. Perfect. Warm. "You don't have to be so delicate with me."

"I'm not being delicate. It's just a long conversation and we're almost there." Sherlock said it casually, but John suspected there was something significant that he was holding back. 

"No more lying, Sherlock."

"No. No lying." Sherlock pulled his hand away to reach for his wallet. "We're here."

***

Ella sat back and pursed her mouth. "Another two years, John. We seem to have a pattern going here."

"Seems like it." John said, tight.

"So what brings you back?" She positioned her pen over the pad balanced on her crossed legs and waited.

"Well. I don't really know where to start." 

"Anywhere you like." Her pen scratched across the paper. John couldn't read it. 

He cleared his throat. "I'm here because...because my...because Sherlock Holmes isn't dead."   


	11. Blue Sky and Dry Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex, basically.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the thanks in the world to my darling CaitlinFairchild for her brilliant beta work, as always. She makes me better than I ever think I can be.
> 
> ***You'll also note a tense change in this chapter. That is deliberate.

**_John_ **

 

_Are you angry at Sherlock, John?_

Angry? No. 

_You're not angry that he wasn't honest with you?_

No. He did what he felt he had to do. 

_That's a very stock answer, John._

It's how I feel. 

_Have you talked about it, at all?_

Not much, no. 

_You said you had a panic attack when you got home. Why was that, do you think?_

I panicked. 

_John, you need to talk to Sherlock. You need to be honest with each other._

That's not so easy for us. 

_You said you had good talks while you were in America. What changed here?_

I don't know. Just feels more real here, I guess. 

_Talk to Sherlock. Tell him how you felt when he died, let him tell you how he was feeling. It's important._

Yeah, I'll try. I just kind of want to get back to normal, you know?

 _You can't get there without talking to each other. Time's up. I'll see you Monday. And I'm going to refer you to someone else, someone who specialises in post traumatic disorders_.

I don't have PTSD, Ella. Jesus. 

_You see, John, the problem is neither of us is qualified to make that determination. I'm not a diagnostician, and I'm not a psychiatrist. I'm a therapist, John, and while I want you to continue seeing me...I think you need more._

Basically you're saying I'm completely fucked up. I'm not. I'm really not. Sherlock's alive, we're together. I'm happy. I'm good.

 _I believe you believe that. It's my job to tell you I don't believe that's the complete picture. Here. He's a brilliant doctor. My receptionist will make an appointment._  

Fine. Thanks.

_And John?_

Yeah?

_It's good to see you. Really good. Welcome home._

***

Sherlock's smoking a cigarette when John emerges. One foot braced against the brick, his coat drawn closed against the cold, hair whipping in little tangled tufts in the wind. He's peering down at his phone, thumb flying over the keys, smoke billowing out of his nose. Fuck, he is absolutely gorgeous. Singular. Wholly and incomparably unique.  Truly no one else like him in the entire world. 

Most miraculously, he's alive. Breathing, smoking, texting, just being Sherlock. It's been over two weeks. Two weeks of Sherlock curled beside him at night in that miserable hospital bed, and then in their bed at home last night. Two weeks of his soft mouth covering John's, of his deep rumble being the first thing John hears in the morning. Today feels like the first day it's real. Sharing him with Mrs Hudson, telling Ella at least part of it all -- it feels like something he can claim. Sherlock. His life.

An exuberant ferocity surges up in him, something he hasn't felt in a long time. A connection visceral and throbbing. A connection to himself, to the John Watson that was a good soldier, and a bloody brilliant doctor, and kept pace beside Sherlock Holmes in the London night, proud and fierce. It's tremulous, shivering, curling around his nerve endings and somersaulting through his chest. 

He wants to  _do_  something. For the first time in almost two years, he wants. He desires. Something, anything. No. Not anything.  _Sherlock_. 

Sherlock looks up from his phone, squinting in the midday glare. John wants to consume him. 

"Gimme a drag." John sidles up beside him, tight to his body, legs touching. Sherlock's arm drapes immediately around his shoulders. The cigarette is right in front of his mouth, held loose between two long tanned fingers. Tanned. So incongruous with everything John has ever known about Sherlock. They really have a lot to talk about. Not now. He wraps his lips around the filter and pulls, Sherlock's eyes on him.

"I thought you quit." Sherlock murmurs, watching John's mouth as he exhales. 

"Well. That was stressful." He licks his lips. "They taste better over here. At home. With you."

Their eyes meet. Sherlock's freckled green eyes are emerald bright in the white winter sunshine, his stare intense. John's belly tingles. Sherlock's tongue darts out and traces the line of his bottom lip. His coal black lashes flutter, blinking under John's unwavering gaze. 

"How was the appointment?" Sherlock's voice trembles just enough that John notices. No one else would, but he does.

"Fine. Good, actually. She wants to see me three times a week for a while." 

"I think that's wise."

"And see a specialist. In PTSD." It feels like a confession. 

Sherlock looks down at John before he answers, gauging John's mood. His mouth tightens. "I - I think that's also wise."

John doesn't reply to that. Sherlock smiles as if he's said something wrong, and it aches in John's chest. He leans his head against Sherlock's shoulder.

"Who were you talking to?" John tries not to sound jealous, but he does anyway.

Sherlock smiles indulgently, touches the side of John's face with two fingers. "My brother. He's putting a tail on Malvo. And we're meeting with him tomorrow morning to discuss it. Malvo, how you got in contact, what happened in Bemidji. By the way, if anyone asks where you've been for last few months, you went to stay with my parents in the countryside. John Watson has never set foot in America. Or so says the FCO."

"So convenient to have the British Government for a brother in law."

"Brother in law?"

"Well." John turns his head and kisses the tips of Sherlock's fingers. "In a practical sense."

Sherlock clears his throat and moves his fingers against John's lips. It tickles, the touch too light, and John grins and scratches his lip with his teeth, and Sherlock grins too. They can't stop looking at each other.   

They have so many things they needed to discuss, to do. Urgent, important things that have to do with their safety, and the rest of their lives. They have to meet with Mycroft. They have to talk about what had happened while they were apart. They have to sort out this Malvo and Moriarty connection.  _Fuck it._

"I want you." John husks out, heat crawling up his neck slow and sweet. He's not felt this since before, this languorous kind of arousal that's all slow kisses and laughing under the covers. It makes his thighs hot.

Sherlock's arm is heavy around his shoulders. He curls his hand towards John's face, and John wraps his mouth round the cigarette again, sucks until his cheeks hollow. Sherlock swallows noisily beside him.

"John. Is now the best time?" 

He tilts his head back and blows the smoke toward the sky. "Doesn't take long. I mean, it  _can._  Take all day. If we want it to." John turns so their chests are flush, too many layers of coat and clothes between them, and trails his finger down Sherlock's neck to the edge of his scarf. "But it doesn't  _have_  to. And I just don't want to wait anymore. I'm so fucking tired of holding back from each other. I want to start right now, just make everything right between us."

"God, what on earth did Ella  _say_  to you?" Sherlock breathes out, swallows again against John's fingers.

"She said it's important to be honest." John presses his mouth to Sherlock's throat. Sherlock shivers against him, reaches his hand up and takes a drag, blows smoke over John's head. John kisses him again, under his jaw. "To - to tell each other how we really feel." Mouth over Sherlock's ear lobe, pulling. The barest scrape of teeth. Sherlock breathes out hard and presses his hand into the curve of John's spine. "So. I'm telling you how I feel. I want you. I've always wanted you. I've wanted you since the fucking second I laid eyes on you. I thought I lost you. I thought I lost you without you knowing." He trails his tongue over the stubble at the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "I don't know what's going to happen from here, and I don't want to wait  _one more second_  to show you how I feel about you."

Sherlock answers by dipping his head down and finding John's mouth with his own. They've not kissed this way before, with the promise of so much more. Sherlock's tongue licks along the side of John's, their breath mingling humid and cloudy in the cold air. John tucks his hand between coat buttons, strokes his fingers against Sherlock's stomach as they kiss. He wants this warmth, Sherlock's warmth, his wet lips on his skin, his hands on him, inside him.

"Let's go home." John touches his tongue to Sherlock's teeth, their mouths still joined.

"Alright." Sherlock whispers shakily. His cheeks are flushed as John pulls away. Flushed with blood. John's so close to his face, he can see his capillaries. All that  _blood_.

 _Blood in his cheeks. Blood on the pavement. Bloody knuckles after John punched someone into a wall. Blood dripping over John's arms in a hotel half a world away from home. On the floor in Lester's kitchen. Moriarty's blood spattered all over the roof at Bart's._  John bites into his lip hard, chews the dark thoughts away. Chews until he picks off a healing scab and tastes blood. Relief courses through him. 

"Are you alright?" The lovely flush fades, in favour of that vaguely pitying concern that John loathes coming back into his eyes. 

Those eyes should be looking at him with desire, not pity. He puts his thumb against Sherlock's lip, over his chin. "Yeah. I'm just desperate to get you into bed."

Sherlock bites his lip, grins and blushes. He looks about eighteen. 

John hails a cab.

***

John throws the Boots bag on the sofa, spins around and pushes Sherlock up against the just closed door with both hands. " _Jesus_ , John," he gasps, hands already working at the cold zipper of John's jacket. 

John presses his hips against Sherlock's thigh. "I think we gave - " John licks Sherlock's Adam's apple, stubble rough against his tongue, soft wool scarf against his lip. "The cashier at Boots - " He unbuttons the top button of the Belstaff, nuzzles against Sherlock's collarbone inside his shirt. "Quite the afternoon. Two middle aged men pawing at each other while buying a huge box of condoms and a bottle of lube."

"I'm hardly middle aged, John, thank you." Sherlock fingers sneak under the hem of John's jumper, gentle and slow, cold enough they make him jump.  

"Well. To him we are." John shoves his hands inside the coat, pushes it off Sherlock's shoulders, and it thumps heavy on the wood floor. He starts on Sherlock's shirt buttons. "Too many fucking clothes."

"John." Sherlock's voice is steady, staying. His hands close over John's. "John."

"What?" Gasping, pulling at the knot of Sherlock's scarf. "God, you knot this thing like it's trying to escape."

"John, stop for a second." Sherlock's hands tighten around his, stilling them, trying to get his attention, and John looks from his scarf to his face, which is solemn, far too solemn. 

A stone drops into John's stomach and he steps back. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Sherlock swallows and swirls the pads of his thumbs in little circles over the heels of John's hands. "Because. Because we just got home yesterday, and you've been -- difficult to predict since we came back, and we've barely had enough time to have a proper conversation and I just -- I think we should just slow down a bit."

"You don't want to." John's voice goes flat, accusatory and petulant. He sounds like a child having a strop, and he hates himself for it. He yanks his hands out from under Sherlock's. 

"I  _do_  want to. Very much." Sherlock tries to take John's face in his hands, but John ducks and turns his back, walks past him into the kitchen. "Please don't be angry. I do want to. John."

He shouldn't be angry. He shouldn't feel rejected and unsure, not after all they've been through, after two weeks of hospital food and catheters and Sherlock helping him shower, for fucks sake. Sherlock hasn't done anything - anything - to deserve this anger. And yet. He can't make himself think of what was before the last two weeks.  _You have to be honest with each other, John._  Shut up, Ella. Not now. He slams the kettle on the cooktop with far too much force, the clatter of it echoing through the small room. Twists the gas on so hard the knob comes off in his hand. 

"Fuck." He wants to kick the oven. The kind of white hot anger he cannot - he really  _cannot_  - control, is coursing through him. He jams the knob back on, crooked.

"John, why are you so - " Sherlock stops, at the look on John's face. He's standing in the kitchen doorway with his scarf half undone and his shirt untucked, eyes wide with confusion and not a small amount of fear. "I'm sorry. Maybe I said that wrong. I didn't mean I didn't want you."

John throws the window open and a burst of icy air soars into the kitchen and nearly puts the burner out under the kettle. "Let's smoke. Come on."

"Um. Alright. My cigarettes are in my coat, I'll just..." Sherlock shrinks around the kitchen doorway and returns with his coat on and his cigarettes in his hand. 

John climbs out first, banging his knee on the window frame and cursing. He takes a seat on the steps of the fire escape, leaving Sherlock room to sit on the tiny landing directly outside the kitchen window. Sherlock climbs out behind him, his long body folding gracefully through the small space, as usual. He doesn't bang his knee. 

He silently hands John a cigarette and lights it for him, looking abashed. 

_You are an utter shit, John._

John takes a drag and exhales, keeps breathing out hard and long once the smoke is gone, and leans his forehead against his hand. He doesn't look at Sherlock. "I'm so sorry. I think I'm kind of a mess."

Sherlock laughs, kindly and soft. "Yes. I rather expected you would be. It's alright."

"It's  _not_  alright. I'm being awful to you."

"You're not. You've been through a massive amount of trauma and recovery is not linear. I don't expect you to just get better every day without regression."

"You're being way too fucking understanding. Stop it. It's not like you, and you're freaking me out." John cracks one eye open at him and tries to smile. Sherlock closes a hand over his knee leans forward and kisses John's leg through his jeans. "What was that for?"  

Sherlock shrugs. "I love you. I want you. I want you now, this afternoon. I just want it to be deliberate. I  _want_  it to take all afternoon, if that's what we want.  I just want to be able to experience it, not just - do it. That's all I meant. It's - it's - significant."

"You could never have said this stuff to me two years ago."

"No." Sherlock takes a drag, gazes steadily at John.

John considers Sherlock for a long moment, how much he's aged, how different he is. He's become both stronger and softer, a warmth and openness in his eyes that John had only caught glimpses of before. He smiles more easily, doesn't try to couch his emotions in sarcasm all the time. 

"So...no more sociopath bullshit, then?"

Sherlock laughs and chokes a little, smoke puffing out of his nose. "No."

"I never bought it, you know. I knew you too well to believe that crap you fed everyone else."

"You  _did_  call me a machine." Sherlock looks down as he says it, fiddling with a dry leaf stuck in the ironwork. 

"That was...um. That was a really stressful situation," He's justifying it.  _You have to be honest._  "No. You know what? That was an awful, shitty, cruel thing to say. That was fucked. I shouldn’t have said that to you, Sherlock.  I'm sorry. I thought about that a lot, you know. That that was basically the last thing I said to your face... _before_."

Sherlock looks up, eyes wet. He digs his fingers into them and rubs his nose with the back of his hand. "I did too."

"I'm sorry. I'm really fucking sorry."

"I know." Sherlock's smile is so wide and warm it fills up his whole face, fills the space between them. He's so very different. Softer, more open, changed by what he went through. John is different, too.  He's gotten sharper, more prickly than he used to be, less apt to be polite just for the sake of it. While a lot of his anger had dissipated since Sherlock came back, he knows he'll never be who he once was. Both of them are so changed. Yet. Somehow they still fit together perfectly. All Sherlock's softness dulls John's sharp edges. They'll  _always_  fit, every incarnation of who they are will always match the other. He knows this. They’re made to fit, created just to be the other’s one. Doesn’t excuse treating each other like shit, though. John’s rather had enough of himself suddenly. 

John tosses his cigarette into the alley. "I'm sorry I got angry. I'm such a fucking arse, Sherlock."

"You're not." Sherlock shakes his head, tousled ebony curls streaked with mahogany in the sunshine. John needs to know what they look like spread out on a pillow underneath him.

"I am. I really am." The kettle screams and John stands up. "Let's go back inside. I'm fucking freezing out here."

Sherlock climbs in first, turns off the kettle, and reaches for the mugs in the cabinet. John shuts and locks the window, gets the tea bags. They move in sync with each other, John getting the sugar, Sherlock getting the milk. John doesn't realise he's actually made a cup of tea for Sherlock instead of himself until he's stirring in the second spoonful of sugar.

"Here. I made yours." John holds the mug out, and it feels like a peace offering.

Sherlock exchanges it for the one he's made. "Well that worked out nicely, because I made yours."

John takes a sip and it's too hot, burns the tip of his tongue and stings the open scab on his lip, and it's perfect. They take the tea to the couch and sit pressed together from ankles to shoulders and don’t speak.

When the cup is almost empty, John says very quietly, "Do you still want to?"

Sherlock puts his nose in John's hair above his ear and whispers, "Yes."

John’s good at sex. Not just the physical mechanics of it, though he knows he's good at that, too. He's good at the banter, the seduction, the sleepy soft afterward - all gentle fingers and tender kisses. Sex has always been intuitive to him in a way he knows that it isn’t to a lot of other people. His natural confidence in this space surges up in him, making him feel more himself than he has in years. He sets his mug on the table and picks up the Boots bag. "I was hoping you'd say that. Come on then, beautiful."

Sherlock flushes at that, delicate pink blush over his cheekbones and his ears. He looks even more lovely, though John's not sure how that's physically possible. Those perfect full lips curve up into a smile so achingly sweet that John drops the bag on the floor and surges forward, wraps his hand around the nape of Sherlock's neck and pulls him down into a bruising kiss. Sherlock's arms close around his waist, hands rubbing at the dip of his spine, touching along the edges of his shoulder blades. John pushes up on his toes, both arms around Sherlock's neck, teeth nibbling at his bottom lip. Breathing each other's air.

" _Christ,_  I missed you." John says into Sherlock's mouth, because that's where his tongue is, and pulls him down closer. 

Sherlock tries to shake his head, and John isn't sure whether it's apology or not, but he doesn't allow Sherlock's mouth to move away from his long enough to find out. Sherlock makes a noise that's somewhere between a sob and a laugh, and it reverberates through John's lips and tongue and down his throat, and he can almost  _see_  it behind his closed eyelids. Sherlock's hands skim down to the top of his jeans and stop, and John pulls back enough to say, "You can touch my arse, Sherlock. It's not off limits."

"I know that." Sherlock's lips brush over his chin, tongue dipping into the cleft.

"Good." John says, and it's not half of what he wants to say, it's not even close. He wants to say that he's been waiting for almost five years to have Sherlock's hands on him, and he knows he can't ever live without this ever again, and they haven't even begun yet. He wants to say that Sherlock's hot mouth on his makes tears well up sore in the back of his throat. He wants to say that he's spent two years trying to imagine how this would feel, mourning what they’d never had, and that none of his fantasies ever came close to the reality of this, of them. He wants to say,  _goddammit Sherlock, I thought I lost you forever, and I want to pour myself inside you until all that's left of me is in the shape of you._  He doesn't say any of those things. He just squeezes Sherlock's head in the cradle of his arms and kisses him until his lips are raw.

Sherlock's hand drifts down over his arse and his hip, long fingers trace the seam of his jeans against his thigh. Every movement is slow and deliberate. A swirl of fingertip. A press of a warm palm. Fingernails scraping the wrong way up the denim. 

"Come on, let's - " John doesn't finish the sentence, just pulls on Sherlock's hand. The hallway is cast with a blue winter light. John thinks for a moment it feels like a dream, and he doesn't want it to. Too much of his life the last two years has been him walking through it like a man asleep, not feeling anything. He wants to  _wake up_.

Sherlock must have grabbed the bag, because he tosses it across the bed and then sinks down onto the edge of it. He looks up at John, eyes half closed. "Come here, John." His voice is rough. 

John steps forward, and Sherlock hooks his index fingers into the loops of his jeans, tugs gently. John lets himself be pulled forward, hips thrust out, into the vee of Sherlock's legs. His thighs are hot as they tighten on the outside of John's knees. Sherlock sighs in a way that sounds more like a gasp, and presses his face into John's stomach. His hands curl into fists at John's hipbones, fingers still in his belt loops, knuckles against the pockets. 

It seems very natural to let one hand fall into Sherlock's hair, the other kneading gently at his shoulder. Sherlock's rubbing his nose against John's jumper and it's  _heartbreaking_. It makes John feel like he's cracking open, just that little movement against the cableknit pulling him apart from his rib cage outward. This is so much, for both of them, being here together. Sherlock's been stalwart and strong since their reunion, but John suspects sex might be overwhelming for him. He twists a curl of Sherlock's hair around his finger and tries not to cry. 

"Hey." His voice shakes. " _Hey_. Sherlock, you okay?"

Sherlock's fingers unfurl over John's hips, his hands so large they wrap easily around John's narrow frame. He fiddles with the edge of his jumper, pushes a thumb inside, against a patch of smooth bare skin. He looks up at John, eyes luminous and dark, his nose pink at the tip from the wool. 

"I'm perfect. Just that - I haven't really - I mean to say - " Sherlock puts his face back against John's wool covered stomach, cheek this time. 

John traces the shell of his ear with a fingertip. "Talk to me."

"I just haven't done this. Often. A few times in uni, but - not often."

"Who in uni?" John clears his throat. That came out wrong. "I don't mean names - I just. You've, with men before, right?"

"Yes." Sherlock's smile presses into John's stomach. 

John cards his fingers through Sherlock's hair, rubs down the nape of his neck, circles a thumb over the base of his skull. "Just checking."

They're both quiet for a long moment. They've never really discussed their sexuality. In some ways it's completely inconsequential, because they'll never be with anyone but each other again. This first time, though, John needs to assess, to know Sherlock will be alright with everything, because John was a slag long before he was sleeping with prostitutes, and Sherlock's sexual experiences are terribly limited comparatively. John doesn't want to make any assumptions about what Sherlock will be alright with. 

"Irene?" He has to ask. It seems the right moment, though he feels his body tensing already anticipating the answer.

"No." Sherlock sounds shocked he would even ask. He looks up at John and shakes his head, " _No_. You thought I was - ? I wasn't attracted to Irene. I wasn't in love with Irene."

"You were fascinated by her." John sounds jealous, even standing here between Sherlock's legs, in their bedroom. He supposes he still is, a bit.  

"I was. She was...fascinating. In certain limited ways." Sherlock's hands skim up John's back, and down again. He curls a foot around John's ankle. "I was in love with  _you_."

"Anyone else? Since uni?" 

"No one else. I was - the work came first. I didn't want distractions." A twist of curl is caught in Sherlock's eyebrow, which is both endearing and bizarrely sexy. 

"But you found me distracting." John smoothes the curl, then tucks it behind Sherlock's ear, which is something he's been wanting to do for five years.  

"Relentlessly. Horribly."

"Good."

John's pleased grin gets quickly covered with Sherlock's mouth. They fall back sideways across the bed, John crawling up Sherlock's body with one knee bent beside Sherlock's hip and the other between his thighs, adjusting his shorter torso and aligning it against Sherlock's longer one so they can keep kissing. It feels both brand new and familiar, the solidity of Sherlock's body under him, the smell of him. This is what they should have always - always - been doing. John's throat aches again. He licks into Sherlock's mouth instead of crying, and runs his thumb down the side of Sherlock's neck, slow. Sherlock shivers, stretches his neck against John's fingers.

Crooking himself up on his elbow next to Sherlock's head, John kisses over his jaw, presses his mouth against his pulse. The thump thump of his blood pumping through him is beautiful. John sucks a little, enough to make Sherlock jump and curl a leg up beside John's. Sherlock's hands are running over the backs of his thighs, insistent.

"I wish - " John says between kisses. "I wish I had known. Then. That you - felt that way."

"It wouldn't have changed anything. I would still have had to go." Sherlock's breath is coming faster, his face and his neck are hot, so hot. He arches, neck bending back, hips slipping up against John's.

"It would have changed things for me." John noses down to rub his tingling mouth along Sherlock's collarbone. "I would have been able to tell you I loved you before I lost you."

"Jesus, John.  _Jesus_." Sherlock makes a hard desperate noise, his chest moving fast against John's chest, and wrenches his head to the side, pulling John's face up with his hand at the same time, crushing their mouths together in a hard kiss that's all teeth. "I'm so sorry."

"I know, I know. I am too. I should have, too. Said something. Long time ago." John works his way down Sherlock's neck again, stubble scratching his mouth and his nose, and rubs his hand up and down Sherlock's side. 

"John."

"Yeah?" He whispers breathlessly, watching Sherlock's throat moving. 

"I'm -- I want to be. I want it to be good. For you." Fingers in John's hair, slow circles on his scalp. Sherlock pushes up, just a little, with his hips, into John's belly. He shivers, pulling on John's hair. "Oh."

"Sherlock. It's already good. Because. You know.  _Us_." John pushes up on straightened arms and looks down into Sherlock's face. "So we'll just take it slow, yeah?"

Sherlock nods, stiffly at first, and then John brushes a thumb over his eyebrow and kisses the end of his nose and Sherlock exhales and goes loose underneath him, and repeats, "Slow."

"Okay." John breathes in, shaky and shallow, and kisses Sherlock on his mouth, his cheek, his chin and his eyelids. Sherlock sighs at every one, touches John’s hair and his shoulder, curls his leg around the back of John’s thigh and presses his foot flat against his calf. 

John rocks, presses himself into every place Sherlock is touching him. His belly is hot and full, his skin tremulous, but he's not quite hard yet. He puts his tongue in Sherlock's ear. "We can go slow, as slow as you want. You set the pace. You tell me. Tell me what you want, Sherlock."

Sherlock reaches up John's back with shaking hands and curls his fingers around the thick collar of his jumper, just barely brushing the skin at John's hairline. "I want," he breathes out, and swallows, thumps his head back on the mattress, "I want this jumper off."

John laughs, which feels amazingly good, laughing with Sherlock in their bed. It feels like the world reordering itself the way it’s supposed to be. Sherlock laughs too, breathless and deep, and tugs at the jumper again. 

“Off.”

“Yeah. Hold on.” He reaches behind him and pulls it over his head, throws it in the corner. 

“You still have your tee shirt on, John.”

“Well, you didn’t  _say_  tee shirt. You said jumper, very specifically.” 

“And  _I’m_  the smart arse.” Sherlock cocks an eyebrow and grins.

John's so happy suddenly it almost hurts. Sherlock's smiling up at him with the warmth of the goddamn  _sun_  and it's all he can do not to bury his face in the curve of Sherlock's neck and hitch his legs around his waist and just pour every ounce of emotion out of his own body into Sherlock's as fast and as hard as possible. Strip them both raw. He breathes through his nose and thinks  _slow. We said slow_. 

"You. You take it off." John moves back, shifts his weight so Sherlock can sit up, his long legs stretched out straight between John's thighs. 

Sherlock's eyes lock into John's as he slides his fingers around the frayed cotton and drags it up and over John's head. He immediately goes to take his hands away, and John grabs his wrists. Gives him what he knows is a seductive smile. "Hmm-mm. Where you going?" 

Sherlock ducks his head and looks up at John with his bottom lip half in his mouth. "I just wasn't sure..."

"If we're going to have sex, you're going to have to touch me, you know. You still okay with this, Sherlock?" John tries to sound gentle, though the heat is rising in him, with Sherlock's muscles jumping between his legs, his own bare skin laid out in front of Sherlock's inquisitive gaze. 

"Yes. I am  _so_  much okay with this, John." He sounds more confident. "I'm just a bit -  out of practice."

"Well," John murmurs, curving forward and tucking his nose into the juncture of bone and tender skin below Sherlock's jaw, "We can, um,  _practice_  as much as you want. Just put those bloody beautiful hands on me."

He closes his eyes and rubs his mouth against Sherlock's throat, and Sherlock instinctively wraps his arms around John's back.  Sherlock's hands are warm and bony, skating flat up John's back, fingers slow over each vertebra, mapping, tracing. His head starts to go floaty light, hormone drunk, just from this. Just from twenty seconds of Sherlock's hands on his bare back. He hasn't felt this, this kind of wanting to just sink down into another person, evaporate and drift into them until he can't tell the difference between their heartbeat and his, for years, forever, since before he even met Sherlock. 

John barely whispers, "That's it, that's lovely. God, Sherlock," before Sherlock's moving his hands to John's chest, stroking winter rough fingertips over his nipples, down over the scars on his belly, and John works to breathe normally. His entire body is buzzing, anticipating every touch, the feeling of Sherlock's skin against his own overwhelmingly good. He puts his mouth over Sherlock's again, mostly to stop himself from whimpering.

"John - " Sherlock's hands are rubbing hot paths on John's thighs again, his words low and desperate.

"Yeah?" 

"Take off your jeans."

"I thought we were taking it slow?" John laughs, but starts unbuttoning his jeans anyway. 

"We are, I just." Sherlock's eyes are all over him, but slow and purposeful, inquisitive in that way that only Sherlock's eyes get. 

It should be unnerving somehow- John thinks - having those intense eyes taking in every inch of him. Instead it feels like all the parts of him that were wrong are splintering off and falling away, like dead bark off a tree.  Everything that was dirty, sick, and wounded, peeled off by what John sees in those one of a kind eyes. Making a space for something new and alive to grow.  _He loves me_ , John thinks, and for the first time, he really believes it. 

He stands up on the bed, clumsy and half falling over as the mattress bounces under his feet, and kicks his jeans onto the floor. Falls back down to his knees and bends over Sherlock, who's propped up on his elbows and still fully dressed. "You love me," he whispers, and doesn't give Sherlock time to answer. Their tongues twine together and John can't remember ever having kissed anyone like this, like he's kissing them with his whole body, giving himself over completely to the slide of warm lips and rough taste buds and the nick of someone else's teeth against his tongue. 

Sherlock pulls back, panting, just enough to murmur hoarsely, "Did you think I didn't?" 

"I - no, I did. I knew, but - I can see it." John rubs his nose against Sherlock's, sweeps a thumb over his closed eyelid. "Here. I can  _see_  it."

Sherlock tilts his face back into John's and kisses him, and it  _feels_  the way Sherlock's violin  _sounds_ , sweet and sad and yearning, and it shakes John down to his bone marrow. 

He reaches between them and strokes Sherlock's throat with one finger for a moment, tugs at the top button of his shirt. Sherlock nods, without taking his tongue out of John's mouth. One button at a time, slow and fumbling because he's not looking, John gets Sherlock's entire shirt undone and begins to tug it off his shoulders. Sherlock sits up to help him, and their teeth clang together. Sherlock laughs around John's tongue, and there's no reason in the world that should make John want to cry, but it does. Tears well up and John lets them, laughing back, and kisses Sherlock's bottom lip, and pushes his shirt off.

There's something. Something rough and bumpy and unexpected, as John's fingers slide over the curve of Sherlock's shoulder blade. Sherlock stills, going tense under John's hands.

John pulls back and looks at him, runs his hand down to his waist. It's all knotted skin and raised lines. Sherlock's eyes are wide and worried.

"Sherlock." John says, not wanting to hear how serious and strange his voice sounds. "What is this?"

"I - we haven't really - the moment was never right - and - " Sherlock's voice is shaking, and John hates how he sounds ashamed. 

"What is this?" John says again, and moves to his right, shifting around Sherlock's body until he's behind him. "Jesus fucking Christ. Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock."

Sherlock's entire back is a mass of scarring, white and red and purple. Thick shiny lines crisscrossed with thin ragged ones, a few pink circles that look horribly like cigarette burns. There are particularly wide ones that definitely look like they were made by some kind of strap. A belt. John's seen enough abused kids in his medical practice to recognise where someone's been whipped with a belt.

He can barely breathe. It's like someone just hit him in the chest. He swallows and swallows and tries to get air. 

"John." Sherlock twists around, the scars on his back pulling and stretching. John can't take his eyes off them. Sherlock turns and gets up on his knees, faces John so he can't see the scarring anymore. "Listen to me. It's alright - "

"It is not fucking alright, Sherlock. There is absolutely nothing alright about that." John sucks in a breath, and reaches up to touch Sherlock's face. "God, what - what have you gone through? How could I not have - I didn't even ask you."

Sherlock kisses at John's wrist, "Criminals tend to get angry when you infiltrate their networks and shut down their financial contacts. Body counts start rising and people get frustrated... I had a few mishaps along the way. Purely physical. It's fine. They'll get better. In time."

"It's not nothing. Who did that to you? I swear to god, I will kill them with my bare hands. Fuck the gun. I will choke the fucking life out of them. I will, I will fucking  _tear them apart_  - " 

"While I very much appreciate the sentiment, John, I assure you I have already taken care of that." Sherlock puts his hand over John's chest, where white tendrils of scar tissue snake down his pectoral and over the swell of his shoulder, "Look. We both have scars."

John breathes through his nose, his skin too tight. "I have been so fucking self involved. I never even asked. What happened to you, why you couldn't contact me all that time...I never  _even fucking asked_ , Sherlock. And you. You've spent the last two weeks letting me be angry with you and shout at you for lying to me, when you had - and this - and Jesus, how could you let me do that, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shrugs, fingers trailing over John's scar, "There was a time, you know. When I was gone. Well, most of the time, actually, when I wasn't sure I'd ever see you again, so. There you were, a bit broken up, but  _there_. And alive, and you needed me. I was unbelievably grateful just to be with you and to have you not hate me, truthfully."

"I could  _never_  hate you." John can't stop touching Sherlock. Face, neck, belly. Warm and whole and strong. "You have to tell me everything. I have to know."

Sherlock's smile is sad. He closes his eyes and breathes, "Not today. Today I just want this, you. Please. Not today, John. Just let it be enough that I made it through and so did you."

Years ago, he would have insisted. Would have railed and shouted until Sherlock capitulated. He can't do that now. He understands too well how it feels to have so much pain that it's impossible to face it without breaking under the weight. The pain of thinking about what Sherlock went through might just break him, too. 

"Alright. Another day. But - I just - let me - " John shifts again, circles around Sherlock's back, and spreads his legs on either side of Sherlock's hips. Presses his mouth to the cruelest looking scar he sees, ropey and thick, twisting over Sherlock's left shoulder blade. Sherlock shivers and drops his head back, puts his hand on John's knee. John kisses down the whole length of the scar, soothes every uneven nub of ruined flesh with his tongue.

Sherlock's shoulders twitch and curl against John's mouth. His voice is rough when he says, "You can't kiss them away, John."

"I can try." John husks out, too close to tears to say anything more. _Sherlock did this for me, he went through this for me, while I was being a selfish pitiful shit and being angry with him for leaving me. Angry with him for dying, for fuck's sake. While he was_ \- John cuts off his own train of thought by rubbing his lips over Sherlock's back until they're stinging. He can't allow himself to get caught in those thoughts right now or he'll drown in them.

Kissing Sherlock's scars shouldn't be arousing, and it's not, really, but Sherlock's squirming in between his thighs, sighing and pushing his back against John's mouth, his skin hot and flushed and wet with John's saliva. "Oh, John," Sherlock says over and over, rubbing his hands up and down John's legs. "I love you," John says so quietly he's not even sure Sherlock can hear him, with his tongue pressed against Sherlock's back, but Sherlock gasps and arches his back, and the heat between them is rising, the air thick, even though that isn't what John intended. He just wanted to kiss the pain away, but Sherlock's touching his thighs, and shifting relentlessly against him, and making beautiful delicate noises.

There's an irregular shaped area of unmarked skin between Sherlock's shoulder blades, right below his cervical vertebrae. John licks at it, Sherlock shivering against him, and makes a promise to himself that he will never again for a single second allow himself to think of Sherlock as selfish or unfeeling, even when he's being a complete berk, because John's been through war and death and people with their arms and legs blown off, and this is worse because Sherlock did this _to protect John_ , and he mustn't ever allow himself to forget that. He kisses the smooth pale skin so gently, breathes against Sherlock's back, rubs his nose up into his hair. "You're amazing," he whispers.

Sherlock's flushed all the way down his chest when John moves back around to face him, his lip caught in his teeth and his eyes shut. His eyes struggle open to focus on John. They're black with desire, translucent golden green rims of iris around his enlarged pupils. "You. That was making me mad. Your tongue - "

"I have a lot of other plans for my tongue," John says, trying to lighten the mood, trying to bring them back to laughing hot into each other's mouths. He licks a wet messy stripe up the side of Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock moans and slowly lays back, reaching one hand out to stroke at John's stomach and adjusting the pillow behind his head with the other. "Come here."

"Mmmm, not yet." John bends down and kisses the middle of Sherlock's belly, smooth and warm and covered in soft downy blonde hairs. He pulls at the waist of Sherlock's trousers with his teeth, which makes Sherlock suck in a noisy breath and curl his fingers into John's hair. "These have to come off."

Sherlock nods and mumbles, "Yes, yes," quiet and slurred, his breathing shallow and rabbit fast. He fumbles at his trousers, half undoes the button and nearly smacks John in the face with his belt buckle.

John smoothes both hands over Sherlock's quivering stomach. "Shhhh. It's alright. We're taking it slow, remember?"

"I think slow might actually kill me, John." Sherlock's hands are running into John's hair and down the back of his neck, hard and uncoordinated. "I've thought about this so many times, and how it would feel, and it's - the reality of it is quite different."

John presses his mouth - laughing again - along the swell of Sherlock's hip as he eases his trousers down his thighs. "I thought about it too," he says softly, nose buried in soft cotton, the crease of Sherlock's pelvis humid and musky. Sherlock's trousers are awkwardly bunched around his knees. John reluctantly peels his face away from Sherlock's pants and kneels up to take the trousers off.

"You - you did?" Sherlock lifts his legs, one at a time, pushing the trousers off with his toes, and then hooks his ankles together around John's back. "Even, before?"

"Mmmm." John hums, running his hands over Sherlock's bare legs, coarse brown hairs and chapped winter skin. His ankles are rough. "All the time. Especially when we had a row."

"Oh god, me too." Sherlock arches his neck, the last vowel of his sentence dissolving into a groan. He rocks his hips up, legs tensing around John's waist, the outline of his cock shifting inside his pants. 

John's mouth waters, actually waters, and he swallows hard, remembering when this all began, the first time he wanted to pin Sherlock down, put his hands and his mouth on him, make him mindless with pleasure.

"The first time I really - " he falls back over Sherlock's chest, kisses at his neck as Sherlock's hands move ceaselessly over his back and his arms, squeezing at his biceps and the tops of his shoulders, " - let myself was the night we fought about my blog and and I went to Sarah's. The night he - blew up the building across the street."

"Yeah," Sherlock pants, his voice breathy and much higher than John's ever heard it, shifting his hips against John's, his cock hard and hot between them.

John swallows and licks at Sherlock's earlobe, "Yeah. I just kept thinking - I couldn't stop thinking, even when I wanted to - if I could just -  _show_  you. Because I couldn't _say_  it, but I thought if - I could just show you - you'd know."

"Keep going - " Sherlock gasps, and pushes his fingers under the waist of John's pants.

"Christ." The head of his cock pushes through the button up of his boxers and rubs wet against Sherlock's stomach and fuck, he really needs to get a condom on, but this feels good, so good his thighs are already shaking, arousal burning through his veins and hot in his belly, between his legs.

"Keep  _going_ ," Sherlock says again, and bites into John's shoulder.

"Oh god, okay, yeah," John says, restless, rubbing his hips in little circles while the tension pulls his bollocks up tight to his body and he has to remember how to talk without any air in his lungs. "I was on Sarah's sofa and I kept - kept thinking of you on  _our_  sofa - in your pyjamas and your dressing gown and I know you never wear pants under your pyjamas and I just kept thinking about what you would do if I came home and just kissed you and told you what an awful shit you'd been and just held you down and kissed you, just kissed you all over and shut you up a bit - "

Sherlock's writhing now, he can't stop moving and shifting and arching against John's body, his face and his neck blood red, his chest mottled pink and white with arousal. "Kiss me now."

John slides his mouth along Sherlock's jaw, feeling weightless and helpless as Sherlock's tongue curls around his own. 

"I thought about you that night too," Sherlock whispers, pulling John's bottom lip between his teeth. He pushes at John's boxers with his toes, managing to pull the elastic down under one arse cheek. "I wanted this. I wanted you to come home to me and just - like this - with you on top of me - "

"Oh, Christ, Sherlock." 

"I did. I never thought you - " 

There's absolutely no explanation for how hot and perfect the sole of Sherlock's bare foot feels rubbing over his arse, except that it's Sherlock and of course he would do something bizarre like rub John's arse with his foot and make it sexy and endearing and wonderful. Sherlock puts his foot flat against him and pushes them together so tightly their hip bones grind together and it actually hurts, and John groans and tries to move and Sherlock whispers, "Sorry, sorry," and John doesn't care that it hurts because he just wants them as close as they can possibly get and so he says, "I don't care, it's fine," and kisses him again.

"I always did, from the start, always. Wanted you. Loved you." John says quietly, seriously, wanting Sherlock to understand how much he means this.

"I didn't know." Sherlock says, just as seriously, his hands climbing up into John's hair, cradling around his face.

"Well, we're even then, ‘cause I didn't either." 

"Both idiots." Sherlock smiles, thumbing over John's ears and touching his cheeks and his jaw.

"Tell me - " John whispers, gentle, tucking his nose tight against Sherlock's neck, "Tell me what you wanted that night."

"I wanted you - to come home - I wanted you not have left in the first place." Sherlock turns his head, awkwardly kissing at John's temple, rubs the flat of his hand down John's ribs, slow and deliberate. "I couldn't stop thinking - about you - how you  _smell_  - what you would feel like on top of me - "

John squirms and pushes his hips against Sherlock's, their cocks sliding at each other through their pants. John shudders, feeling like there's too much blood in his veins and not enough air in his lungs, and says hoarse and strained, "Like this?"

"Mmm," Sherlock hums, licking at his own lips and clumsily at John's face, and scratches his fingernails up over John's rib cage.

"Tell me. Tell me what you wanted me to do that night." There's a perfect dark brown freckle under Sherlock's Adam's apple. John always liked to watch it move when Sherlock talked, could never keep his eyes from drifting down over Sherlock's mouth, down to his neck. He puts his mouth over it and licks. 

"Oh. I wanted - you to come in and say - say you didn't want to sleep there, at Sarah's. That you - _oh John_  - wanted to sleep at home, with me, and then you - " Sherlock stops, cheeks flushed, looking embarrassed.

John wants him to to not be embarrassed, about this, about them. Because  _them_  is everything important and good and right, and there is nothing here to be embarrassed about. He trails his finger along the elastic of Sherlock's pants, raises his eyebrows. Sherlock lets out a long shuddering breath and nods, eyes shifting down to watch, watch as John dips just his index and middle finger under the waistband, smoothes his hand flat over Sherlock's hipbone and feels the beginnings of sparse wiry hairs against the heel of his hand. Sherlock shifts his hips, still watching, as John kisses down his belly and runs his hand down the inside of Sherlock's trembling thigh.

"Tell me," John whispers, watching Sherlock watching him as he finally slips his hand around smooth satiny skin, blood hot, and slowly drags the pliable skin up over the hardness underneath, "Oh, god, Sherlock. You feel so good."

Sherlock shakes his head, overwhelmed, his whole body tensing up, jaw muscle jumping. John slows his hand but doesn't stop. Two fingers lightly up and back, rubs the pad of his thumb gently over the tip, precome smearing across his palm. "You feel so good," he repeats, kissing Sherlock's sternum and nipping at the dip where his ribs swoop down into his stomach. Sherlock gasps and bends up, his leg arcing around John's thigh.

"Okay? Do you want me to stop?" John says, moving his hand slow, slow, up and down Sherlock's cock, nuzzling and kissing at the triangle of hip above the stretched elastic of his boxers.

"No, I don't want you to stop," Sherlock reaches down, curls his fingers around John's ear, his eyes watching the motion of John's hand inside his pants, "I just. I'm so - I'm really close already."

"That's okay. I just want to make you feel so good, even if it's fast. I don't care." John moves up Sherlock's body without taking his hand off his cock, kisses his shoulder and his neck, "Tell me what to do next. Tell me what you wanted me to do that night, Sherlock. Tell me what you imagined."

Sherlock whimpers a little, his cock thickens, the slippery precome under John's thumb increasing. John slows more, loosens his grip, just slides two fingers up the side, as Sherlock finds his voice. "I wanted you to - kiss me - "

John pushes up on one elbow and leans over Sherlock, presses his mouth to Sherlock's hard and chaste at the same time, like the way John had kissed his first girlfriend, like the way Sherlock had kissed him in the hospital in Bemidji. Leaving no room for interpretation of what it meant.  _You are mine_. "Like that?" 

Sherlock nods, his eyes screwed shut, his body twisting and arching, pushing into John's hand. "And then - you'd touch me, like you are now - and more - "

"Yeah," John can't deny he's just rutting against Sherlock's hip, listening to Sherlock's breathless words in his ear, panting high pitched gasps in between them, watching Sherlock's face and neck and chest go darker and darker, his feet moving restlessly against the bedsheets. He needs to put a fucking condom on. "Where?"

Sherlock closes a hand around John's wrist and John lets him direct his hand, pushing it down so John can cup his hand around Sherlock's bollocks and cradle them and rub his perineum. Sherlock jerks and moans and squeezes his legs together around John's hand, then lets them fall open. John lets his middle finger trace back, questioning, and Sherlock pushes down and spreads his legs wider.

"You wanted me to come home and touch you like this. Right on the sofa, yeah?" John curls his fingers, kneads gently, Sherlock's bollocks heavy and full in his palm, the heat between his legs making John's mind go slightly foggy. 

"Yes. I wanted you to - " Sherlock swallows, biting his lip, trying to move his hips against John's hand, trying to urge his fingers back.

"Like this," John breathes out, kisses across Sherlock's collarbone, and brushes his fingertip feather light against tight furled skin. Sherlock groans low and rumbling and pushes down hard enough that the very tip of John's finger goes in, just that much, a centimeter, and John has to stop himself from burying his whole finger in that tight heat. He's shaking, rubbing his hips in circles against Sherlock's upper thigh, "We would have - if I'd come home - we would have.  _God_ , I wanted you that night. I wanted you all the time, but that night was different. I couldn't have held it back," he drops his voice into a dark whisper, pushes two fingers against Sherlock, not in, just there, "I got so hard thinking about you that night."

"John, please," Sherlock squirms, panting, pulls at John's shoulders.

"I did. I got so -  _oh god_  - fucking hard, and I had to - I couldn't not," He can barely breathe, Sherlock's hot, thrashing, vibrating body pushing against him everywhere, pushing against his cock and his fingers and his neck, Sherlock's hand slipping fast and frantic up over his hip ribs bicep shoulder and back down. He presses his fingers deeper, just that much inside, and Sherlock groans and digs his fingers into John's waist.

"Oh God, John, please," Sherlock breathes humid into John's ear, his lips catching on the lobe. 

John kisses Sherlock's chest, and leans over the side of the bed, fumbles at the bag and manages to hook it with one finger while Sherlock runs his toes up the inside of his thighs, "I think we need these."

"Yes, just - I can't  _wait_  - get these damned boxers off," Sherlock pushes and tugs and John lifts his hips so Sherlock can push them all the way down, and the while they're still hanging off his left ankle, Sherlock's hand slips between them, flat against John's belly. He circles his fingertips through the curls of coarse brown hair, questioning. "I want to touch you."

John can feel the wetness on Sherlock's pants against his cock, and he wants more than anything - anything - to tell Sherlock  _yes, fuck it, I always used condoms, it's fine_ , but he can't, he absolutely can't, and it aches terribly when he says, "No, I have to - we have to. You know what I've been doing."

Sherlock makes a noise somewhere between frustration and sympathy and rubs his hand up against John's stomach and whispers, "I know. One day. We'll take care of everything, tests and whatever, and one day, we will. With nothing between us."

"Yeah," John chokes out, and it sounds like a sob.

"But I really, very much, rather desperately, want you to fuck me now."

"Oh my god, Sherlock," John has never, he doesn't think, ever heard Sherlock say the word fuck, and the way he says it now, needy and raw and pulling at John's hips and back with sweaty hands, makes John's stomach contract and his face burn. "Yeah, yeah, just let me - "

John fumbles for it, Sherlock grabs at the bag first, rustles inside until he finds the bottle of lube. John watches, transfixed, as Sherlock deftly unscrews the cap and tears off the tiny aluminium paper seal, and dips his finger in the top, tugging his pants off with his other hand.

"You - get a condom on and I'll - " Sherlock pants, barely coherent, and pushes at John's shoulders.

John gets the hint, scrambles back to kneel between Sherlock's legs and tear the box of condoms open. His need is urgent and close now, John's blood coursing through him lava hot, the most primal part of his brain and body taking over. 

Sherlock spreads his thighs, curls up, and slides his slicked hand over his bollocks and around. His eyes fall shut as he presses a finger against himself.

"Sherlock, oh god," John's done this to himself, to other people, but seeing Sherlock, red faced and open mouthed, watching as one long finger slides inside his body and then another, watching his skin stretch around his fingers, it's profanely beautiful. "Look at you, you're so - Christ I don't even have words."

 _I could come just from watching him fingering himself_ , John thinks, his hands wandering down to caress Sherlock's bent knees, which are leaning against John's hips. He licks his dry lips, transfixed by the slide of Sherlock's fingers in and out of his body.

"Condom, John," Sherlock reminds him, panting, crooking open one eye, half smiling with his kiss swollen lips.

"Oh, yeah." John fumbles the first packet he pulls out, drops it on the floor. "Fuck," he mutters, tearing open the second one and rolling it slowly down over his leaking prick, making sure not to allow any precome to get on the outside, though there's probably some small amount on Sherlock's stomach and hip, and John knows the chances of him having something are very slim because he always took precautions, he can't, he absolutely  _cannot_  take chances with Sherlock.

"John. Now," Sherlock takes his fingers out of himself, puts his hand on John's hip and tugs him forward. 

"Oh Christ," The head of his cock touches Sherlock's body, just barely, and Sherlock groans, pants, claws into John's hip. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, Sherlock."

Even in the middle of their urgency, the air between them throbbing with want, Sherlock smiles softly, his cheeks going round and dimpled, eyes half closed, and runs his hands over John's trembling stomach, his ribs, slow and lingering over his nipples, and murmurs, "You.  _You_  are."

John rocks his hips, pushes in and hard until the head of his cock moves past resistant muscle and into the tight wet heat of Sherlock's body. His head floods with endorphins as Sherlock wraps his legs around his back and pulls him closer. "Oh fuck - god - you feel so - "

"Come on, John -  _move_."

Sherlock's heels dig into his back and John shifts and relaxes and lets Sherlock's tensed thighs and restless hands pull him all the way in, buried inside Sherlock, and the knowledge of that is almost too much to bear, because it's  _always_  been this, it's always been  _them_ , entwined and desperate and indecipherable from the other one, everything that was wrong between them came from trying to hold this back, and now John is inside him and there's nothing wrong between them anymore.

John shifts his weight, brings his knees up against Sherlock's arse and leans forward so  they can kiss, bending him nearly half and their kissing is sloppy and uncoordinated and John can feel Sherlock's heart beating against his own chest.

"I want to fuck you so hard - Christ - so fucking hard, Sherlock," John meant to say _I love you_ , and he laughs at himself, because maybe what he actually said means the same thing right at the moment, and thrusts _in_  and _up_  and the end of his laugh turns into a bone deep groan as his belly floods hot.

Sherlock mouths against John's jaw and throws his hands behind him to grab at the headboard, "Fuck me hard, John, God I want it, so  _hard_ , come on," he gasps, breathless and tight, his voice breaking.

Sherlock stretches and arches, and John settles his hands on his waist, and pushes up enough that he can put his weight on his right hand and wrap his left hand around Sherlock's cock, which is so hard and wet and beautiful that John's mouth fills with saliva at the sight of it in his hand. Sherlock's twisting and tensing, raising his hips up to meet John's thrusts and making low rough noises in his throat. His cock pulses against John's fingers.

He can barely get enough air to choke out, "Come on, Sherlock, I want to see you."

Sherlock's mouth falls open in a wordless cry as his back bends up off the mattress, and then he's spilling hot and thick over John's hand, between his fingers, dripping down into the thatch of thick black curls trailing up to his navel. John slows the motion of his hand, the rocking of his hips, spreading Sherlock's come over his cock as he pulls him through it. John licks his lips. He can't stop looking at Sherlock's flushed neck and his eyes rolled back in his head and his come slick and translucent white all over John's fingers. 

"That's it, Sherlock, that's - fuck, you're beautiful."

Finally Sherlock collapses back down on the bed, panting and whimpering, breathing out hard through his nose in short little bursts. His hands come off the headboard and curl around the back of John's neck.

"Hard, John, harder," Sherlock breathes out, biting into his lip. 

"Oh fucking hell," John says, his heart thumping so fast it almost hurts, and digs his toes into the bedsheets, his fingers into the soft skin at Sherlock's groin, and grinds his hips  _forward_  and  _down_  and  _hard_.

Sherlock keeps groaning and moving, his fingers playing with John's hair and rubbing over the backs of his ears, and God, he's still hard, cock bouncing against his sticky belly as John pounds into him. 

"You're still hard," John gasps, shaking to his core, every muscle trembling. His throat feels raw.

"You're still fucking me," Sherlock says hoarsely, and scrapes his fingernails down John's back.

"Oh Jesus, Jesus Christ, fuck, oh god, Sherlock," John bites out, and goes rigid, letting his orgasm rip through him hot and cold and shivering, leaving him weak and heavy. He kneels there, quivering between Sherlock's sweaty thighs, until he can move his limbs, which feel molten and shapeless. He goes to pull out and a hard aftershock pulses through him, making him whine and clutch at Sherlock's leg.

Sherlock takes his hands, eases him down to the bed, and turns on his side to face him, curled up with his hands beside his face. John pulls the condom off, ties it carefully and tosses it somewhere in the vicinity of the loo. He turns and looks at Sherlock, flushed and glowing with perspiration, his hair tangled, his eyes soft and drowsy.

"You - that was - come here," John reaches out an arm to tuck it under Sherlock's head, and Sherlock inches forward, throws his left arm over John's waist. 

"I'm cold," Sherlock murmurs, his voice muffled against John's chest.

John reaches down and yanks the blankets up from where they're bunched at the end of the bed, pulls them crookedly over both of them. "Better?"

"Mmmm." Sherlock tilts his face up to look at John, rubs his nose into John's chin.

"I never want to leave this bed." John can't not kiss him, his lips so pink and full. They kiss quietly for a long minutes, kiss until John's belly starts to tingle again.

"We should stay here forever. Mrs Hudson can bring up takeaways to fortify us." Sherlock says against John's mouth, grinning.

"That would be more than slightly awkward, I think, Sherlock." John pets his hair and Sherlock sinks down against his side and sighs. "But for the next few hours, yeah. Let's just stay like this."

"Okay." Sherlock says, and kisses John's chest. 

Kissing turns into half sleeping, legs folded together, holding hands. They're sticky and sweaty, and John's bare feet are hanging out of the bottom of the blanket and freezing cold, and he doesn't think he's ever been more content in his life. 

The sun is sinking down orange below the lip of the window when Sherlock rouses himself, rubbing his face against John's belly and grumbling. "Dinner?"

"Starving." John rubs his hand up Sherlock's spine, and their lips meet. "I don't want to go anywhere."

Sherlock smiles, nibbles at John's chin. "No. I think we have ramen noodles."

"Perfect."

They don't bother showering, just pull on dirty tee shirts and pants and throw dressing gowns over their shoulders. Sherlock boils the water and John grabs two beers out of the fridge. Sherlock doesn't normally drink beer, but he takes a long swig when John hands him the bottle and clinks it against John's. "Cheers."

They sit side by side on the sofa, slurping noodles and watching a rerun of Top Gear. It's almost perfect. 

"So. I have to meet with your brother tomorrow?" John says quietly, his eyes on the television. 

Sherlock clears his throat and takes a sip of his beer. "Yes. He wants - well, to be fair, I also want - a briefing on Malvo. We've no idea who he is, can't tie him to any particular crime. He's like a ghost."

"A ghost with a terrible haircut." John laughs, more bitterly than he means to, and chugs the last of his beer. "Okay. What time?"

"Eight. At Diogenes." Sherlock's hand falls to John's knee. He leans against him. "I'll be there with you."

"I'm not afraid of your brother." 

"I would never suggest you were. I rather think he's sometimes afraid of you." Sherlock presses his lips to John's cheek and curls his legs behind him on the cushion. "I love you."

The casualness with which Sherlock says it, the ease, cuts right to John's core. He puts a hard kiss to Sherlock's forehead. "I love you too. Right. Eight. Okay. Okay."

"We don't have to talk about it tonight." Sherlock's hand tightens on John's knee. 

"I don't want to."

"Then we won't." 

Another episode begins, and John stretches his legs out on the coffee table. Sherlock kisses his neck without any real heat, and he twirls his fingers into Sherlock's hair. 

"I like this episode. It's the one where Clarkson sets fire to his camper." 

Sherlock hums and laughs against John's throat, and they sit there until the only light in the room is the blue flicker from the telly. Sherlock falls asleep, and John rubs his hand up and down the bumpy outline of his scars under his thin dressing gown, kisses his hair, and tries to forget about everything outside of this room. 


	12. Up On the Railing, Trying not to Look Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was both a labour of love and a commission of love from addictedstilltheaddict, which was the most wonderfully flattering thing, to have someone love this fic so much they wanted to commission a chapter from me. It meant a lot. I hope this chapter lives up to her hopes.

_**Sherlock** _

The moon is shining bright winter white when Sherlock startles awake at half past two, his mind racing. The memory of how he got into bed comes back in pieces. John's fingers under his chin, John's mouth against his cheek, whispering, "Come on, you don't want to sleep on the sofa." John tugging him down the hallway, covering him with blankets. John curling around his back, kissing his neck, pressing his hand possessively into Sherlock's stomach. John. _John_. John, who is still tucked tight against Sherlock's back, breathing even and soft, his knee resting against Sherlock's hip. John, who was _inside_ him yesterday. An shiver skitters down Sherlock’s spine, just at the thought.

Sherlock slithers carefully out of John’s embrace, and turns to look at his sleeping lover?boyfriend?partner? _everything_ , who looks more peaceful and contented than Sherlock’s ever seen him. John’s shoulders are bare, scratch marks from Sherlock’s nails still pink across his pale skin. Sherlock stops long enough to tuck the blankets up over him. John hums and curls his arm into his chest, smiling in his sleep.

Sherlock swallows down the aching surge of affection that wells tight in his throat, and tiptoes out of the bedroom, shutting the door gently behind him.

It's freezing in the flat. The Belstaff is still crumpled on the floor where John had pushed it off of him the afternoon previous. He grabs it and slides its familiar weight over his shoulders, cracks open the window behind the desk, perches on the edge of the windowsill with his leg propped across it, and lights a cigarette.

The smoke's not really going out the window, more blowing into a cloud round his head, but it doesn't matter as it once would have done. John used to get furious - affectionately furious, but furious nonetheless - at even a whiff of cigarette smoke in the flat. He probably wouldn't even notice now.

So different. Yet, the same John Watson underneath, starting to peek out from beneath the damaged exterior. Sherlock sighs and rubs his hand down his face. He's never been charged with the responsibility of John's heart before. His body, certainly. Keeping him from harm, protecting him from Moriarty and his goons, helping him shower and dress at the hospital - these are things he knows how to do.

He doesn't have the first clue how to keep John's _heart_ safe. It's frankly terrifying. What if he gets it all wrong? He's not, historically, been good at this. He's learning to be, he’s beginning to understand how to navigate the wild storms that lurk inside of this man he loves so intensely, when to pull back and when to let out the sail, but it still requires so much thought and effort. John's always been a complex man, but now he's fragile and unpredictable as well, and Sherlock isn’t naturally empathetic.

And now they're having sex. They're in a romantic relationship. Sherlock's experiences in this area are so scant as to be nonexistent. Surely he should be more nervous. It would be wise, considering what they've both been through the last two years and John's mental state, to be wary and cautious. But it's John, and Sherlock can't be wary. He’s incapable of treading slowly, of holding back the desperate love - bordering on adoration - that’s been simmering under the surface for so long. When he said he wanted to stay wrapped in John's arms forever and eat takeaways in bed, he meant it with every fibre of his soul. That should probably scare him.

It doesn't, though.

Sex has always been unnerving. To have another person touch him, to breach the facade, to make him moan involuntarily, and whimper and beg, is vaguely frightening. Losing control of his body, of his emotions, is not something Sherlock's been able to do without fear, without regret. Not with John, though. John’s hands work magic, John’s hoarsely whispered endearments bring forth emotions in Sherlock he hadn’t even known he had, and it's comforting, enjoyable, welcome. It's right. John touching him somehow makes Sherlock more himself.

He shuts his eyes, burning with exhaustion, and tries to make some sense of the thoughts in his mind. John is the one constant, for five years, the only person who matters, who’s ever mattered. Focus on John, and everything else will fall into place.

He twirls another cigarette between his fingers but doesn't light it. It's going on three now. In five hours they'll be at Diogenes with Mycroft, and reality will intrude on these last few days of relative happiness. Yesterday was both exhilarating and exhausting. Today will be more of latter and not much of the former. The briefing with Mycroft will probably last hours. It’s likely they’ll end up having to eat lunch at the Diogenes and continue through the afternoon. Mycroft will grill John like he’s a suspect. It’s going to be arduous, and Sherlock will have very little say in how it goes. John will _hate_ it. It's going to bring up all the things he's avoiding thinking about - everything that happened in Bemidji, and what brought him to that. What came before. Moriarty. The fall. What Sherlock did. What Sherlock failed to do.

John's so volatile. God knows how he'll react to talking about all these painful and difficult things. Maybe John will be angry with him, and everything that Sherlock’s been nervously anticipating for two weeks will finally come pouring out and it will be like starting all over again. Sherlock's own pain over the last two years seems nothing in the light of John's blinding grief. _Will I ever earn his forgiveness?_

Sherlock lights the cigarette.

He lights another and another, smoking and staring blankly into Baker Street until the sky is turning purple with the first hints of sunrise and he can smell the day's first pots of coffee brewing at Speedy's. He washes the reek of tobacco smoke off his hands and face, and stares at his own grey reflection in the mirror before he slips back into bed with John. It’s nearly five, Sherlock registers foggily as John rolls over with a throaty hum and instinctively opens his arms, pulling Sherlock snug against his chest.

Nestled with his ear against the steady thump of John’s heartbeat, Sherlock finally feels his eyelids growing heavy and allows to sleep to reclaim him.

***

Sherlock wakes up more slowly than he usually does, his eyes gritty from lack of sleep, his muscles aching. John’s wrapped round him like an eel, his feet slotted between Sherlock’s legs, his nose pressed against Sherlock’s spine. Sherlock wriggles back into the curve of John’s body, the comforting warmth of him, feels John’s hipbones sharp against his arse. He’s too thin.

_Is that what girlfriends do? Feed you up?_

A hundred years ago. A thousand.

John hums and straightens his legs, makes a low rumbling noise that Sherlock's come to recognise over the last two weeks as the sound John makes approximately thirty seconds before he yawns, rubs his knuckles into his eyes, and rolls on his back. It sounds different this morning, now that Sherlock knows what John feels like moving inside him, how John's voice gets rough when he's about to come. It all feels different. There’s no barriers between them anymore, which is both thrilling and unmooring.

Sherlock wants to watch John while he's still sleeping. He turns, careful not to move the mattress too much or dislodge the blankets. John rolls on his back, scratches clumsily at the side of his face where gingery stubble has cropped up overnight. Sherlock has always thought John was beautiful, in the way mountains are - imposing, solid, immovable, taking up the whole of the horizon with their grandiosity. Now he seems smaller. More real. Flawed and fragile, and somehow all the more beautiful for it.

Sherlock watches his long blonde eyelashes flickering, the way his jaw moves as he swallows. He watches John’s pulse thumping under his jaw, the infinitesimal movements of the prominent veins in the center of his forehead, across his temple. A half moon of gunshot scar is visible above the hem of the blankets, white and ragged against John’s pale peach skin. Sherlock’s gaze travels the length of each waving line of scar tissue, his own feeling tight across his back.

God, what they have been through. And it’s not even close to being over yet. The last few days have been an interlude, the interval between the bloody first and second acts.

They have so little time before the world intrudes. Without allowing himself to think about it too much, Sherlock nudges his nose against the swell of John’s bicep, resting bare on top of the sheets. The answering grumble is quickly followed by John’s arm bending up to curve around the side of Sherlock’s face, knuckles resting against his hair. Taking this as encouragement, Sherlock parts his lips just slightly, brushes them back and forth over warm skin.

“Morning.” There’s a smile in John’s voice, hoarse from sleep.

“Morning.” Sherlock whispers, feeling as though there’s a spell over them he’s not ready to break.

John yawns and stretches, growling contentedly and smacking his lips in such a _John_ way that Sherlock finds himself grinning against his pillow.

“I’m just gonna - I can’t stand not to brush my teeth first thing. I’m just going to pop to the loo and I’ll be right back.” Fingers trail lightly down Sherlock’s ribs, dance over his hip. John looks down at him as he kneels up on the bed and backs out from under the blankets. “Don’t you move, gorgeous.”

“Not a muscle. Promise.”

The look John tosses over his shoulder as he disappears into the bathroom could melt sand into glass. Sherlock rolls and looks at the clock. Barely six. Back when they were what they used to be, more than friends but less than this, Sherlock would listen to John getting up for work at the clinic. Six on the dot every morning, John’s feet would hit the wooden floorboards of his bedroom, and Sherlock would try to find a way to look like he was doing anything except waiting to watch John walk down the steps in just his pants, dressing gown slung over his arm, his hair messy and rumpled. _Morning, Sherlock_ , he would mutter, eyes half closed as he stumble stepped into the hallway. Sherlock would sit as rigid as a wooden plank, pretending his heart wasn’t pounding at the sight of John’s coral coloured nipples against his pale chest, his muscular thighs, the tease of a hipbone above the waistband of his underwear.

Now Sherlock’s allowed to be excited about those things. He’s allowed to _touch_ and _kiss_ and _worship_ John’s chest and hips and spiky ridiculous hair, and that’s slightly overwhelming. He sucks in a hard breath, trying to process all of this, that in a matter of weeks, he’s gone from thinking he’d probably never see John again, to thinking John would never be the same again, to _this_. This perfect brilliant thing that they’re becoming, which is in part the undefinable _them_ that they’ve always been, and something much deeper and better and not even close to being encompassed by a word as small as _love_.

It occurs to him that as John is getting better, stronger, more like how he was before, that Sherlock too is coming back to himself. Now that the danger isn’t so immediate, now that they’re home, fitted back into the framework of people who care about them both, watch over them both, a weight has lifted from Sherlock’s shoulders. The caretaker, the strong one, those aren’t his natural roles. He hopes he can hang on long enough to get John well, to get this damned Malvo sorted, to put their lives back together. Because John is not quite well yet, and they’ve only been home for a few days, and Sherlock still doesn’t fully understand everything that happened to John while they were apart. He doesn’t have the data to predict how this is all going to go, and they still have Malvo to contend with.

John still needs Sherlock to be more stalwart than he’s used to being. He must do it. For John.

There’s a creak, and John’s standing beside the bed. Sherlock blinks, casts his eyes over the gentle indentation of John’s navel, the smattering of blond curls below, and up to John’s smiling face. His eyes are soft and black as he looks down at Sherlock.

“Thinking?”

“Yes. Sorry.”

“What the hell for? Thinking is sort of your definitive characteristic.” John climbs over Sherlock’s legs and settles back down under the blankets. He smiles slow and darts his tongue out to wet his lower lip. “We have some time, you know.”

There’s a chord in his voice that is definitely an invitation. Sherlock turns and shimmies, tucks himself into John’s waiting arms. John’s fingertips stroke leisurely up and down his spine, pausing to trace over bumps of scar tissue. Whenever John reaches a scar, he makes an unhappy noise, inhales deeply. He keeps moving closer, closer, until their legs are completely entangled and Sherlock’s face is pressed tight against John’s scruffy warm throat. John’s thigh is hot between both of Sherlock’s. He flexes it, pushing up against Sherlock’s bollocks. Sherlock thinks it was maybe incidental, until he does it again.

John shifts, moves down so they’re face to face, kisses Sherlock as though they’ve been kissing each other good morning always, easy and familiar and lingering. He runs a finger over Sherlock’s lower lip and nibbles at his own. “Are you very sore?”

Sherlock thinks about it, moves his hips and clenches his muscles experimentally, and John laughs low in his throat, petting down Sherlock’s back and kissing his cheek over and over.

“No. I’m not.”

“Good.” The timbre of John’s voice has dropped, honey-sweet and dark. It makes Sherlock shiver. “I want - want to. Can I - can we - before we have to go, I just want to.”

“Yes. Yes. Of course, _god_ , John,” Already spinning dizzily as John’s left hand meanders promisingly down his belly, Sherlock reaches out and tangles his fingers in John’s hair, looking for an anchor. “Do you want - like yesterday, or - ?”

John rolls his head up into Sherlock’s touch like a cat, closes his eyes and draws in a deep breath. His knees slide up so he can maneuver on top of Sherlock, his feet slipping icily along Sherlock’s calves. He’s hard now - already - and they haven’t even kissed yet. His cock is thick inside his pants, nudging against the elastic waistband, and all Sherlock can think is _he was inside me **inside**_ _me_ , and his own cock twitches. John smiles, looking up at Sherlock from under his eyelashes, which have always driven Sherlock round the bend with how ridiculously long and curved they are, and ghosts his palm over Sherlock’s swelling prick.

“Whatever you want, baby,” John murmurs, thumbs pressing possessively into Sherlock’s hipbones. “If you want, I could - “

John has never called him - has never called _anyone_ \- _baby_ , he doesn’t think. It sends a ripple of _something_ through him, something not unpleasant, but wholly unfamiliar. An avalanche of pet names tumble through his mind - _darlinglovehoneybabesweetpea_ \- wondering will John call him these things? Now that they’re _this_? Tuck his hands around Sherlock’s waist at a crime scene and whisper electric against his earlobe, _Take us through it, honey bee_? It’s an absurd thought, and Sherlock feels somehow like he shouldn’t be as pleased about it as he is. He _would_ like it, he thinks. It’s ownership. No one else could call him those things without getting slapped. It means they belong to each other. Yes, yes, he would like that very much.

John’s hands are on his wrists now, pushing his arms above his head and holding them there. He instinctively pushes back, and John’s fingers tighten momentarily and then relax.

“Is it okay if I do that?” John whispers, his voice presumptive, already believing that it is.

Sherlock can feel each of John’s fingers individually, where the knuckles dig into his wrist bones, where the pads of his thumbs are soft and gently stroking the heels of Sherlock’s hands. It’s been a long time since his senses were this attuned. He’s been too frightened and exhausted and cold, too alone. Now they’re home, together, and John isn’t so broken anymore, and John is on top of him and breathing his toothpaste scented breath hot over Sherlock’s jaw, _everything_ is in perfect clarity.

He can tell the thread count of the sheets from how smooth they are against his back (M&S Egyptian cotton 230 count), predict when next the furnace is going to come on from the pops and squeaks of the radiator (thirteen minutes, give or take a few seconds), the make and model of the car currently rumbling past Baker Street (2012 Ford C-max, needs tires). The entire world is laid starkly bare to him, like it used to be, the first time they were together, before everything fell to pieces.

John’s sucking a bruise on his neck, sweet and burning, his capillaries popping against John’s hungry lips. It makes him squirm, and want to do something with his hands, but he can’t because John’s holding them down against the mattress. He bucks and makes a desperate whimpering noise in his throat as his cock drags against John’s thigh.

“Still okay?” John’s lips pull hot and wet across Sherlock’s throat, the hand that isn’t restraining Sherlock’s wrists moving down over his ribs, the heel of his hand firm against Sherlock’s hip. “I don’t want to hurt you. I just - “

“...like it kind of rough.” Sherlock whispers, licking his own lips. He’s known this about John, long before he was the one in John’s bed. Yesterday John was holding back, because it was their first time, because he was emotional, because he didn’t want to alarm Sherlock, but Sherlock had said he wanted it hard, hadn’t he? And now John is pressing further, seeing how far Sherlock will let him take this, feeling out the edges of this new _themness_.

“I like it kinda rough, yeah,” John whispers, and rolls his hips against Sherlock’s, a slow tidal movement, his entire body undulating and curving around Sherlock, enveloping him. “But I don’t want to hurt you. What do _you_ want, Sherlock? Tell me.”

Sherlock isn’t even sure what he likes. He likes John. He likes that John’s not miserable and angry and sobbing. He likes that John is smiling against his overheated too tight skin and that his thumb is rubbing a comforting circle against the inside of Sherlock’s left wrist. He likes that John is alive and back home where he belongs, and that John loves him. He likes that John’s _asking_ , that he _cares_ what Sherlock wants and what he likes, because he can’t remember anyone else he’s slept with ever having done that.

"What do you want, Sherlock, come on, tell me. I want to make you feel so good. Let me." John whispers against his jaw. His voice has dropped another octave, rumbling and harsh.

“I want to touch you, John. Please.”

John immediately releases his wrists, hand skimming lightly down the length of Sherlock’s arm. He watches his fingers, head tilted slightly to the side, as they trace over Sherlock’s elbow and tickle briefly at his armpit. Sherlock laughs and jerks his arm down - he can’t help it, he’s always been ticklish - and John’s eyes darken. A shiver runs down Sherlock’s spine. This feels different than last night. Wilder. John is...different.

“I wanted you - before, you know - before everything, I wanted you. I thought I couldn’t ever want anyone more than I wanted you back then - god, you fucking tormented me. With those tight shirts and your perfectly tailored trousers. That round little arse just begging to be smacked.” John slaps Sherlock’s hip, and looks at Sherlock like he’s something edible. His eyes are deep indigo blue - waves crashing, summer thunderstorms - beautiful and dangerous. “But _now_ \- Christ - “

John surges down, and Sherlock prepares for a deep hard kiss. Instead, John’s lips brush against his sparingly, and Sherlock arches up, chasing his mouth, as John pulls away laughing.

“John - “ Sherlock gasps, reaching up to curl a hand round the back of John’s neck and pull him down. His entire body is pulsating, quivering. He wants John flat against him, smotheringly close, their bodies grinding together, sharing the same air.

“Shhhhh. I’ve got you. I just - I want to - “ John’s eyes are half closed as he shimmies down, his mouth open against Sherlock’s collarbone, tonguing at his nipples. Sherlock’s fingers slide through his hair, tug on it just the slightest bit and John answers with a satisfyingly deep groan. He pushes the heel of his hand against the soft fleshy part of Sherlock’s thigh, “Open your legs, there we go. Oh, god, you are _beautiful_. I love you so much.”

Sherlock tries to remember how to form words as John’s mouth descends on his hipbone, scraping lightly across the hollows with his front teeth. “Iloveyoutoo,” he manages to slur out, drunk on endorphins, his skin buzzing. His head feels spun wide open as John pulls Sherlock’s skin between his teeth and rubs his nose soft over his iliac crest. Sherlock’s hands twist into the sheets.

“You’re so good to me, you’ve been so good to me, so patient, so forgiving. You made me remember myself, Sherlock.” John slides lower, abandoning the tingling bruise he left on Sherlock’s hip and nuzzles along the crease of his thigh. “I want to be good to you.”

“You _are_.” Sherlock knows that’s not been entirely true as of late, but that’s neither here nor there. John’s been good to him long before now, John’s been the one constant in his life, the only person who’s ever put up with his moods and his rudeness and his unpredictability. Not just put up with, but appreciated. Loved. Treasured. John is good to him in ways he’s never even know how to be to himself.

John makes a pleased noise and flicks his tongue against Sherlock’s thigh, grips him right above his knees and eases his legs wider. He settles down between them, the sides of his chest resting against the insides of Sherlock’s thighs, and hums and sighs and just looks at Sherlock for a long stretching out minute, those indigo eyes sweeping up over Sherlock’s face, Sherlock’s chest, up the length of his stiff prick, down down between his legs. Just as Sherlock thinks he can’t wait one more second without saying something incredibly bossy and desperate, John’s left hand slides up to ring three fingers around him as he sinks his face into the fleshiest part of Sherlock’s thigh and nips. Hard.

“Oh my god.” A surge of arousal tightens in his belly, but not only that. Affection, love, grief for the fact that they’ve ever been parted for even a single day - let alone well over a year and a half - surge up in him, and the unexpected emotion makes his chest ache. He drops a hand to John’s hair, caressing the back of that perfectly shaped skull that shelters the entirety of John Watson inside of it.

“Like that, do you?” John looks up, his eyes black with lust and gleaming wickedly.

Sherlock’s fingers tighten in John’s hair. All he can muster in reply is a strangled whimper and a stiff nod.

“Good. I always thought we would be - well, you know - that we would _fit_ , like this. You’re not the only one who can deduce people.” John wiggles his eyebrows in such an exaggerated way that it takes them both out of the intensity of this moment, fractures the pressure that had been building inside of Sherlock into something relatively more sustainable.

John laughs, too, easily and genuinely, and everything feels so breakable. Sherlock shuts his eyes against it, refusing to allow what’s coming later to intrude upon this.

“Don’t stop, John. Please don’t stop.” He stretches his hands behind him and sinks down into the bed, and John presses back into him, until Sherlock’s legs are resting over John’s shoulders with his heels in the perfect c of John’s lower back.

“Not going to,” John hums, and puts his mouth back against Sherlock’s skin.

The next nip is more a bite, John’s teeth tugging at the sensitive skin on the inside of Sherlock’s thigh hard enough that Sherlock yelps in pain. His eyes fly open. John grins wolfishly - his eyes dark and predatory. He licks over the red rectangular indentations, brushes his mouth against them in almost a kiss. Then he does it again. Sherlock’s leg curls up against the pain and he can’t stop himself from pushing at John’s head. John looks up, his eyes wide and black, his mouth rubbed pink.

“John, that - that really hurt.” Sherlock stammers hesitantly. He lives in fear of setting off the volcano, of triggering whatever fury John has yet to unleash, and a thrill of regret quivers through him as soon as he’s spoken.

“Do you want me to stop?” John’s shimmering round eyes bore into him, unwavering.

“I - um - ” Sherlock swallows, weighing his options. One, he tells John to stop and John gets angry, stops entirely and they have a fight. Two, he tells John to stop and John’s feelings are hurt enough that they just have to stop because neither of them wants to anymore. Three, he doesn’t tell John to stop, and he gets his legs nearly bitten off. “I don’t want you to stop. I - I liked the first one. Just...a bit gentler?”

John just stares at him. Sherlock stares back, unsure of what’s about to happen. Time feels suspended.

“Yeah, yeah, of course. Jesus, Sherlock. I’m sorry.” John shakes his head and clears his throat. His eyes fall shut and he lays his head against the swell of Sherlock’s thigh muscle. He looks sad and small and about nineteen years old.

Though Sherlock knows it’s anatomically impossible, it feels as though his heart actually _contracts_ at the sight of John so vulnerable and shrunken.

“It’s really alright. It’s fine.” Sherlock tries, backpedaling.

“No it isn’t. I’m so sorry, love, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I would never. I would never want to hurt you. Just got a bit - carried away. M’sorry.” John sounds ashamed and looks miserable, and it’s Sherlock’s fault. Again.

“I know, John. It’s alright.” Sherlock murmurs, trying to sound comforting and sure, though he’s not at all. His heart is hammering, his belly fluttering with nervousness. His erection is almost completely flagged. He puts his hand back in John’s hair and works his fingers slowly back and forth. John sighs and rubs his cheek against Sherlock’s skin. He doesn’t open his eyes.

“Do you - do you want to keep going?” A tremor plucks at the edge of John’s voice, a tremor that viscerally reminds Sherlock of hospital rooms and blackened fingernails and Marlboros and nurses with strange nasal accents and brown ponytails.

This is all entirely unacceptable, and exactly what Sherlock’s been fearing. He’s not _good_ at this, not able to navigate the ups and downs of the kind of recovery John’s struggling through. He’s so goddamned inadequate. “Yes, of course I do.”

John nuzzles his nose against Sherlock’s knee, drags it over his thigh and up to his groin, his eyes still closed. He looks so sad, and Sherlock doesn’t know what to do with this, he just doesn’t _know_. The hospital was easy, relatively. It was action and purpose and he had tasks to complete - change bandages, get John out of bed, make him shower, make him eat. He doesn’t know what to do when John is laying between his legs looking completely bereft and it’s 6:30 in the morning and he’s had an hour of sleep and they’re supposed to be having sex, dammit.

“I - I think maybe we should stop.” John kisses Sherlock’s hip and finally opens his eyes. “I’m - um. I think we need to. I think _I_ need to. Shit. I’m sorry. I just, um. I really, _really_ do not want to hurt you or take advantage or do something that makes you uncomfortable that I can’t take back. And, uh, I don’t think we’ve really even, um, scratched the surface of the whole - I never really explained to you about the prost -- well, you know.”

“John,” Sherlock can hear the pity in his own voice, and it’s surely the exact wrong way to sound right now. He cringes internally and tugs gently at John’s hair. “Do you want to come up here? We could just, I don’t know - “

“Snuggle?” John’s face breaks into a crooked grin, and looks somewhat like himself again, even though his eyes are still heavy with sadness.

The tight coil of tension in Sherlock’s stomach starts to unwind slowly. He realises he’s been clenching his teeth - they ache. He smiles back. “Yes. Is that okay?”

“That’s. That’s perfect, actually.” John crawls up over Sherlock, doesn’t so much lay beside him as half on top of him, his left leg crooked over Sherlock’s hips, his left arm curled against Sherlock’s stomach, his face propped up on his bent right arm. “I always knew you’d be a cuddler.”

“Only with you.” Sherlock says sincerely. He burrows closer, runs his toes along the bottom of John’s foot, up over his ankle. He can’t get close enough. An inch is too much space between them.

“Sherlock. Listen. Yesterday was - “ John looks soft and unsure, his eyes tired. “It was amazing. It was, the best sex I’ve ever had, truthfully. And that is saying quite a lot.”

“But.” The ball of tension is back, tight and hot and terrible, making Sherlock feel like he’s going to be sick.

“But.” John says gently, and reaches his hand up to sweep Sherlock’s fringe away from his brow, to rub a thumb sweetly against his cheekbone, “You brilliant beautiful man. I don’t know if adding sex to everything else we’re - and I _know_ I was the one who started it yesterday, and this morning, too. I _know_ \- but. God, Sherlock, I am still. I’m not. Shit, I’m sorry - this is really hard for me. I haven’t had sex with someone who wasn’t - you know - in years. And I just.”

John stops talking and dips down, presses a soft closed mouth kiss to Sherlock’s lips. He begins to pull away far too soon. Sherlock twines his arm around the back of John’s head, and holds him there. John hums and acquiesces, sinks down against Sherlock’s chest and swipes his tongue along the rim of Sherlock’s lower lip. They stay that way, slowly kissing, breathing each other in, the hot fires of arousal cindered down into this warm give and take. John’s thumb never stops slowly stroking Sherlock’s cheek.

“Sherlock.” John ghosts his mouth over Sherlock’s once more and pulls back.

“That sounds ominous.”

“Remember what you said to me yesterday? _You can’t kiss them away, John._ You were right. And we can’t kiss this away either. I have things I should tell you, things I find really difficult to talk about - “

“It’s alright, John, you don’t have to.” Sherlock interjects, hating the pain in John’s voice.

“No, but I _do_. I really do.” John’s eyes flick to the alarm clock. “Shit. It’s nearly seven. Look, can we just - can we talk tonight? If we’re up for it after today, anyway.”

“Of course, John. Whatever you want.” There’s no other answer. It has to be what John needs. Sherlock forces down the slight shiver of panic at the back of his throat.

John cocks his head to the side, furrows his brow. “Whatever _you_ want is important too, Sherlock. You know that, right?”

“Yes, don’t be silly.”

“Just making sure.” John casts a dubious gaze across Sherlock’s face, and then lays his head snug in the crook where Sherlock’s shoulder meets his neck. “Ten more minutes. I just wanna lay here for ten more minutes.”

“Alright.” Sherlock stares up at the ceiling, focuses on the cobweb dangling in front of the window. He curls his arm around John’s shoulders - too bony, too small - and wishes he had a cigarette.

As if he can’t help it, John whispers, rough, “I’m so sorry about before. Is your leg alright?”

“Yes, for godssake, John. It’s _fine_.” It comes out irritable and exasperated, but John doesn’t seem to notice. Or doesn’t care.

He curls tight against Sherlock’s side. His breath sounds uneven. “I love you so much, Sherlock. Sometimes I think it’s the only thing I’m sure of anymore.”

“I know, John,” Sherlock breathes out, too honest. It feels like an admission of guilt, and he doesn’t know why.

“It’s just.” John clears his throat, stretches his hand out flat against Sherlock’s sternum and idly runs his fingertip through the sparse dark hairs there. “You - loving you - missing you - you’re the only thing about me that never changed. When I couldn’t even get out of the fucking bed, when I was too damned drunk to stand...you were still in there somewhere. It drove me _crazy_ that I couldn’t let you go, but. I think in the end, it was the only thing I could hang on to and remember I had something good once.”

There’s no response to that that doesn’t sound completely inadequate. Sherlock’s throat is so tight with emotion, he doesn’t think he could talk anyway. So he just pulls John _in_ and _up_ and _close_ , as close as he can get him, and John squeezes back, nearly crawling on top of Sherlock as he clutches at him. Sherlock touches every part of him he can reach; his protruding vertabrae, his soft greying hair, the ropey scar tissue across his shoulder - every little imperfection that makes John, John.

He wonders if anything he has to give John will ever be enough to close this chasm inside him.

Finally Sherlock twists and looks at the alarm clock. “John. We have to go. I’m sorry, but we have to.”

Sherlock can feel John’s Adam’s apple moving against his shoulder as he swallows hard. “I know. Alright. Fuck Malvo. Fuck Minnesota. Fuck all of it. I don’t give a shit anymore. I don’t want - I don’t want to have to be that person anymore, Sherlock.”

“You’re not, John. You’re not.”

“I am, though. Aren’t I? Still?” He doesn’t move, his thigh slung across Sherlock’s lower belly, his arm wrapped around his chest.

“Let’s just deal with facts today, alright? Data. We’re just imparting data. That’s all.”

“Ever the scientist.” John finally pushes up and searches Sherlock’s face. His eyes have lost the stormy darkness of before; now a gentle cornflower blue, red-rimmed.

“Science doesn’t have feelings. Which is sometimes convenient.” Sherlock smiles sadly, feeling the weight of all this compressing his lungs, making his limbs feel heavy.

John leans down and kisses him, nudges their noses together. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“You know for what.” John kisses him again and slips backwards off the bed. “Okay, well, here we go, then.”

John heads into the bathroom, and Sherlock drags himself out of the warm bed. He stands and stares at himself in the wardrobe mirror, twists at the waist enough that he can see the tendrils of pink scar tissue that lick around his ribs. _We both have scars._

If only they could all be seen as easily as a whip lash.

***

They’ve been waiting for Mycroft for twelve minutes, closed in this silent cavernous room, when the door finally swings open. Mycroft closes the heavy walnut door behind him, a nearly imperceptible snick of the lock as it catches the only sound it makes. He pads across the thick blue carpeting and holds out his hand.

“John. It’s been quite a while. You’re looking…” Mycroft purses his mouth and cocks an eyebrow.

“I look like shit, Mycroft, I know.” John stands up to shake his hand, and smiles the tiniest bit.

“I see you’ve been at the pastries again, Mycroft.” Sherlock bites out, protectiveness over John welling up in him at Mycroft’s smug expression.

Mycroft’s lip curls, and he opens his mouth to retort. “Ah, my dear brother. As charming as ever. Which means not at all.”

John holds out his hands, one to each of them.

“Alright, boys. No fighting today, alright? I’d really like to just get this over with, and with a minimum of fuss.” John already sounds weary. He takes a cup from the coffee service Mycroft had brought in, picks up the silver carafe and pours. He holds the cup up to his mouth and blows a breath across it, rippling the surface. His eyes flick up to meet Sherlock’s.

“Yes, John, of course. I apologise.” Sherlock drops a hand to John’s thigh, and John immediately slides a hand under and laces their fingers together. It feels like he’s holding on for dear life.

“It’s fine, Sherlock.” John squeezes his fingers and sips his coffee, then sets the cup on the table with a solid thump. “Go ahead, Mycroft. I’m ready.”

“Very well.” Mycroft takes a seat across from them and pulls his chair in, leans forward across the glossy finish of the huge table. “You realise this is all completely off the record. You were never here, we never spoke, and this certainly doesn’t have anything to do with Jim Moriarty.”

"He already knows, Mycroft."

"I heard you two on the phone last night."

"I see. Well, then, shall we get right to it?" Mycroft arches an eyebrow and waits.

John nods once, quick and firm, and lets go of Sherlock's hand. "Absolutely. I can take anything these fuckers have to throw at us."

Sherlock finds himself temporarily lost for words, watching the strong straight line of John's back, the way he squares his shoulders and crosses his arms. The soldier, the doctor reemerging. Unflappable. That still rooted strength that Sherlock's always admired and that's been notably in short supply recently. 

"You amaze me, John." Sherlock says firmly, his chest full to bursting with emotions he can’t name. He wants to say more, to tell John how brave he is, how strong and unbreakable, how proud Sherlock is of him that he’s made it through what he’s made it through and still be standing. It’s neither the time nor the place, but he vows to tell him later, when they’re alone. To tell him over and over until he believes it.

John says nothing, replying only with a bashful smile and a lingering gaze that Mycroft breaks with a crisp throat clearing. 

“So, John, as it seems you already know, Lorne Malvo worked for Jim Moriarty. That’s why he recruited you. That’s how he first knew of your existence. Your connection with Moriarty, with Sherlock.” Mycroft says almost apologetically, looking from John down to his entwined hands resting on the tabletop.

"Makes sense. I always did wonder, a bit."

“John, can you tell me the circumstances under which you and Malvo first came in contact?” Mycroft says quietly, treading lightly.

There’s a beat of silence. A sharp intake of breath. “Well. It was about a year after...and I, um, was in the uh, drunk tank again. I’d gotten in a fight, and Greg picked me up, took me back to sleep it off., which had become rather a ritual between us. There was another bloke in there with me. Asked me a bunch of questions - nosy bugger. About how I got in there, what the fight was about, whether I won...we got to talking about my military experience somehow and then about my work with Sherlock - though I never once mentioned _him_ specifically. Not by name. He handed me a number to call, said if I was looking for a way out. Of whatever.”

John pauses, cheeks flushed. He blinks and looks at the edge of the table, sniffs hard and squints. “I sat on it for a while. But I didn’t throw it out. Kept, just, looking at it. Finally, I called. Malvo answered - though I never knew his name until much later. Until Minnesota. He told me, you know, I could make a lot of money, get the hell out of London. I didn’t care about the money, of course. I just couldn’t be here anymore, and I didn’t want to be anywhere, really. I just wanted to disappear. Even from myself.”

John pauses, shuts his eyes. 

“Take all the time you need, John.” Mycroft sits back in his chair and pulls out his phone.

"I don't need time. I'm fine." John's eyes snap open and he levels a steady glare at Mycroft. "Let's get this over and done, yeah?"

"Certainly." Mycroft pockets his phone again and leans forward. "Did you make contact with anyone other than Malvo?"

"A few times. There was, a woman. American, really nasal voice. And Lester. Well, didn't know it was Lester until later, but yeah, talked to him on the phone a few times once I was in the states. While I was still here a home, just the woman and Malvo."

"And what did you think you'd be doing, John?"

John shrugs, laughs ruefully. "Are you politely asking whether I knew I'd be committing crimes? Yeah, I knew. I didn't give a single  _fuck_ , Mycroft. I was dead. I was already dead, nothing mattered anymore. You have no idea."

"You're right, I don't."

"Because you knew he wasn't." John jerks his head at Sherlock, not making eye contact. 

"Yes."

John laughs again and shakes his head, the fingers curled around his elbow clenching until he's leaving white ovals in his skin. "So let's leave the fucking judgment at the door, alright? My whole life was this one, and he was gone. So."

"John, I assure you I'm not judging you. I'm simply trying to extract maximum information, and understand the nature of what you thought you'd be doing in America."

John sucks his teeth and stares daggers at Mycroft. "Fine. Yeah, so, it was courier shit, at first. Or, that's what he said initially. Then it got more - it became fairly clear I was going to be taking people out."

"Did he ever say that directly?"

"Of course not, Mycroft.  _Oh, by the way, in addition to dropping off some illicit parcels, you'll actually be a hitman, and let me provide you with a detailed list of your first victims._ Don't be stupid."

"As charming as ever, John." Mycroft flashes his most simpering smile and John sneers back, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.

Sherlock slowly slides his chair back, his place in this conversation negligible at best. Mycroft and John will spar and bicker, but they're _efficient_  together. They'll say what needs to be said, and Mycroft will get exactly the information he needs with a minimum of extraneous material. Sherlock will only muck up the works. He'll stay in the background, be a ready hand to hold should John need one. This is what his role is now, John's backup. He finds he doesn't mind that at all.

***

Outside, just beyond the perimeter of the cctv cameras that ring the Diogenes Club, Lorne Malvo lowers his binoculars from his eyes and puts his sunglasses back on. He walks away, hands clasped behind his back and eyes upturned to the skyline, looking like any other American tourist.

Jim has taught him nothing if not patience.

 

 

 


	13. The Speed of Sound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock delve a bit deeper into the mystery of Malvo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The info about John's gun came from Sherlockology: http://www.sherlockology.com/props/johns-pistol
> 
> Thanks, as always, the the beautiful, brilliant, devastatingly talented, and gently honest Caitlinfairchild/caitlinisactuallyawritersname, without whose advice and suggestions I would be half the writer I am. Her beta-ing and her friendship keep me right. Thanks, love! <333

_**John** _

“You feel like we’re being watched?”

“Have all afternoon. But every time I look -” John shakes his head, leans forward and quietly sips his beer. His neck prickles with the creeping sensation of being watched, and he lowers his body as much as possible, slumping down until his knees bump Sherlock’s.

“There’s nothing.” Sherlock says tightly, side eyeing a young couple bustling through the door with an armful of shopping bags. His knee pushes marginally against John’s.

“Right. Nothing.” John leans back in the creased and worn seat, stretching his legs out under the table.

They’d covered most of west London on foot, John restless after their meeting at the Diogenes, unable to go back to Baker Street and just _sit_. He couldn’t take the inertia. When the car dropped them in front of 221B, John just turned on his heel and started walking. Sherlock wordlessly fell into step, sweeping along beside him, occasionally taking his hand reassuringly. They’d stalked though Marylebone until they hit Oxford Street, where John hung a sharp left, passing quickly through the gleaming hordes of posh shoppers in Mayfair, winding them through the tiny crooked lanes of Soho and down through Covent Garden. They’d stopped to use the loo and get cappuccinos in a tiny hipster coffee shop on Monmouth Street, sharing a rich chocolate croissant under the awning as they waited for a rain shower to pass.

Eventually they’d wandered down to the Strand, and headed further east, crossing the river at Waterloo Bridge. Tired and hungry, they’d sunk down into this dark nondescript pub, the tables smudged with fryer grease, the ceiling fans hung with long strands of dust and cobwebs. A table of straggly American tourists are gorging themselves on sausage and mash. A few drunks sitting at the bar are the only other patrons.

Sherlock cradles his second hot toddy between his hands, rubs the pads of his fingers over the cracked surface of the ancient earthenware mug and blows on the surface. The scent of whiskey and sweet lemon drifts across the table.

A thought’s been lurking in John’s mind all day, though he’s been unable as yet to utter the words aloud. After their meeting with Mycroft, he just kept turning it all over in his mind, the whole clusterfuck of his life over the last year, from the drunk tank in London to getting the shit kicked out of him in the hotel room in Bemidji. It all leads back to Malvo, and from him to Moriarty. Two of a kind. Cold, frightening, obsessive. Relentless.

Malvo won’t just allow John to disentangle himself so easily.

“Malvo’s here,” John blurts out, his eyes fixed on one spidery crack on the handle of Sherlock's mug. “In London.”

Sherlock doesn’t look surprised. “Yes, I’ve been thinking that, too.”

“Mycroft _has_ to know he’s here. Why didn’t he say so?” Now that they're discussing this aloud, the nervous restlessness John's felt all day settles into a calm dread, the kind he can live with for an undetermined amount of time.

“Probably didn’t want to cause you more anxiety.” Sherlock says quickly, and douses the end of his sentence in a huge swallow of his drink. He chokes a little, coughs and clears his throat.

“Yeah, because Mycroft’s always extremely concerned about protecting my _feelings._ That’s bullshit, Sherlock, and you know it.” John arches his eyebrow disbelievingly and taps the side of Sherlock’s leg with his shoe.

Sherlock laughs and pulls his coat tighter around him. “I thought he was rather pleasant today. For Mycroft, anyway.”

“I suppose,” John acknowledges grudgingly. He lowers his voice. “If we were in immediate danger -”

“He would protect us. In fact, I’m certain Baker Street is being watched by his people round the clock. As it's always been."

“What about when we’re not at Baker Street? Like right now?”

“Probably we’re on our own right now. Mostly.” Sherlock looks around, scanning exits, taking stock of the other patrons. “Malvo’s not actually _in_ the pub, though. Maybe not even near us at this point. We’re allowed to be on our own because the danger isn’t pressing."

“Your brother sure is arbitrary with his _protection_. Where the fuck was he when Moriarty was destroying our lives the first time? Where was he when I was falling apart?” John grinds his teeth and takes a heavy draught of his beer, self aware enough to understand that all this anger isn’t entirely for Mycroft. He’s angry with himself, too. Furious, actually. For allowing all this, for bringing himself to the brink of destruction and dragging Sherlock down into it.

Sherlock swallows. “He was there. Just. In the background.”

“Yeah well. Lot of good it did us.” His beer crawls back up his throat, sour and unpleasant.

Sherlock shakes his head, shifts forward and lays his hand over John’s. “John, we’ve had this conversation. We can’t change what happened. We can only control what happens from here. No apologies, no regrets.”

“No, you’re right. You’re right.” He flips his hand to lace their fingers together, rubs his thumb over the heel of Sherlock’s hand. “You’ve been - you’ve been right all along.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say _all_ along.” The apology in Sherlock’s voice is unmistakeable.

Their eyes lock, Sherlock looking at John with sorrow and guilt.

“Sherlock. You _just_ said no more apologies.”

“I’m not apologising. It’s simply a fact. You said it yourself, back in Bemidji - you were my protector, you were my partner, and I took that away from you without even giving you a say. I was wrong to have left you in the dark when I left England. I should have told you. I should have taken you with me. It was - a severe miscalculation on my part. And it resulted in, well, everything that we’re dealing with right now. Malvo, you…” Sherlock stops, looks away from John and lifts his drink to his lips again.

“Me. Yeah.” John huffs a laugh, drains the rest of his beer.

 _Me, who still can’t control his emotions for shit. Me, who’s so unstable I can’t be left in the flat alone. Me, who’s just still massively fucked up._ _That’s what you were going to say, isn’t it, Sherlock?_ The image of what happened between them this morning rises unbidden into his mind.

“Sherlock. About me - this morning. We should, well. We should talk about it.”

“John -”

“No. _Listen_.” John bends forward over the table and pulls Sherlock’s hands off his mug, tugs them toward him. Sherlock looks up, his eyes wide and worried. “I’m not apologising - though Christ knows you deserve one - but there _are_ things we have to discuss. Things you don’t know about me, that don’t even have to do with what’s been going on since you left. Just, things every partner should know about each other, and the same for you. I don’t know - _anything_ \- about your past, with women, with men, nothing. We should talk about this stuff. It’s what people do when they’re together, when they’re - in love.”

It’s the first time he’s said those words aloud. They’ve said they love each other, they’ve said _I believe in you_ and _You’re everything to me_ and _I would die without you_ , and they’ve shown each other with their mouths and their hands and in everything they’ve done for each other. But there’s something different about the words _in love_ \- John’s never said _Sherlock Holmes, I am in love with you_ , but now he rather thinks he should have, because Sherlock’s looking at him as though gravity has just reversed itself and they’re hanging off the earth by their toes.

John softens his tone. “Didn’t you realise I’m in love with you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock swallows and stammers, defaulting to that rapid blinking that John always thinks of as his brain clicking through files, trying to find the most applicable one for the current situation. “Yes. I mean. I assumed as much. I know that you _love_ me, but as far as I’ve understood relationships, which admittedly isn’t much, I’ve been given to understand that loving and being _in love_ are two different emotions.”

“Well. That’s true. There _is_ a difference, but. I both love you and am horrifically, helplessly, and some other word I can’t think of right now, in love with you. I’m so in love with you I can’t stand it sometimes.” John isn’t good at this kind of thing, and words begin to fail him, so he just pulls Sherlock’s huge knobbly knuckled hands up to his mouth and kisses them. “Okay?”

“Okay.” Sherlock nods, his eyes ticked up at the corners, every laugh line and crease deepening as his smile grows.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t reciprocate, and John doesn’t ask him to. John kisses Sherlock’s fingers again, tender and lingering, and lays his hands back on the table.

That feeling of being watched returns. John glances around. The scruffy Americans. _Homophobic pieces of shit,_ John thinks, and turns, intending to stare them down. A stone drops into his gut when he makes eye contact with the one directly opposite him.

“Sherlock.” He barely moves his mouth.

Sherlock stiffens almost imperceptibly, immediately switching from loving boyfriend mode to detective mode. “What’s wrong?”

“I recognise that guy. I’ve seen him before.” John looks away from them, takes Sherlock’s hand again and smiles at him.

“Where?” Sherlock gets John’s drift, softens his pose and leans forward, runs his fingertips along John’s bicep, and lowers his lashes.

“Minnesota. He was one of the - he was in a group of homeless people. I picked up...someone. And he was there. I remember his face.” John cups Sherlock’s cheek, strokes a thumb along his jaw. “He must work for Malvo. Shit.”

“It’s fine.” Sherlock turns his head and nuzzles into John’s hand, lips against his palm. “It won’t do to get up and run. We stay here, we take our time, like we don’t have a care in the world. I text my brother, we get an escort back to Baker Street.”

“Yeah, alright. Just pretend we’re on a date.” John rubs his thumb over Sherlock’s bottom lip, shivering at its plump softness, despite himself, despite the circumstances. Years of hunger and want and need aren’t so easily tamped down once freed.

“Aren’t we? Our dates have always involved a threshold level of violence and the threat of imminent death. I’ve always found it quite an aphrodisiac.” Sherlock grins against John’s hand, his eyes flashing with mischief.

“God, you really mean it.”

“I’m not alone in that, I think. I said dangerous - and _here you are_.” Sherlock says, slow and meaningful.

John’s breath catches in his throat at the callback to their first night together, which even at the time felt life changing. It was one of those rare moments John could point to in his life where he _knew_ what he was doing would change who he was, forever. He still remembers, with perfect clarity, looking up into those bright catlike eyes and seeing in them everything he’d ever wanted. He’d known immediately that he would follow Sherlock Holmes anywhere, to hell and back again if he had to.

“Flirt.” John grins, unable even for a moment to disguise his utter delight with Sherlock.

Sherlock grins back, then reaches for his phone and slides it onto his lap. He surreptitiously types out a text to Mycroft with one hand, his phone half covered by the tablecloth.

There’s a flurry of movement, and the group of Americans is suddenly getting up, pushing back chairs and picking up bags. John freezes, and Sherlock kicks him lightly under the table, reminding him. _We’re on a date, act normal_. John picks up the crust of his sandwich he’d left on the plate and stuffs it into his mouth, just to give himself something to focus on. Sherlock jerks his chin in approval and trills a laugh, as though John’s just said something terribly funny. He slips his phone back onto the table, face down.

As the group makes their way out the front door, they carefully avoid looking John and Sherlock’s way. The door slams shut behind them and Sherlock slowly twists to peer up and out of the small dusty window above their booth.

“They’re crossing the street...they’re looking at the bus schedule. The one you recognised has his phone out, texting - contacting Malvo, no doubt.”

“No doubt.”

“Okay...a bus is coming. It’s the 68 to Euston. I think they’re getting on.”

“Well, that’s uncomfortably close to Baker Street.”

“Not _that_ close.”

“Close enough. Tell Mycroft. I don’t want Mrs Hudson getting mixed up in any of this.”

“Nor I.” Sherlock flips back around and snatches his phone up. “Alright, they got on. I’ll let Mycroft -”

Sherlock’s phone interrupts him, buzzing loudly with a text before he can send one. He lays the phone between them and motions John over to read the screen.

_Brother dear. Expect a phone call in 8 seconds._

“Even his texts annoy me.” John mutters, though in truth he’s relieved and grateful to have Mycroft at their sides. They’ve always relied on him more than either of them is willing to admit, and now is no different.

Sherlock’s phone rings, the noise a shrill and unnerving noise in the quiet pub. Sherlock answers it quickly, his eyes never leaving John’s.

“No, they’ve left. 68 bus to Euston - yes, John already pointed that out. As long as Mrs Hudson is s---good. Alright. Are we clear to go home, then? Ah. Good. And Malvo? He's here, yes? Thought so. Fine. Alright.” Sherlock hangs up without saying goodbye. “We can go home as soon as Mycroft sends us a tail, which should be about twenty minutes. Baker Street’s been searched and cleared. Malvo’s gone to ground, but he’s being looked for. The best thing for us to do is go home and think. I need to think, John.”

“Alright, love. Let’s go home, then. I just wish I had my…” John trails off, fingers instinctively reaching into the waistband of his jeans.

“Would you like your gun, dear?” Sherlock grins, sly and proud, and slips something from his coat, slides it carefully across the red vinyl seat.

John gapes at the sight of his old sig laying there, black and well polished and so wondrously familiar. Every scratch memorised, the outline of his hand visible in the dullness of the metal where his sweat had worn away the finish. He looks up at Sherlock and shakes his head.

“Where did you _get_ this? I thought I’d -” He swallows as his hands close around the metal, warm from Sherlock’s body heat. “I thought I’d tossed it. No, I _remember_ tossing it in a skip.”

“Well. There are many advantages to having the British government for a brother. Such as access to the nation’s rubbish.”

“You had Mycroft fish my gun out of a skip?” The thought fills him with so much delight he can barely suppress laughter.

“Well, I hate to disappoint you, John, but I’m certain it wasn’t Mycroft _himself -”_

“No.” John holds up his hand, still grinning. “No, don’t ruin it. I want to believe it was actually Mycroft. Just - just let me have that.”

Sherlock laughs, “Alright, John. _Yes_ , it was Mycroft, most definitely. Probably in one of those awful skin tight jogging outfits he has. Can you imagine the _bulging_ while he was leaning over the side? He must have cleared the alley, people shielding their eyes as they ran.”

And suddenly they’re dissolving into gales of laughter, tears streaming down their cheeks, rolling around in the booth and gasping for air, until their bellies are aching. Until John’s head hurts and his cheeks are burning.

“Oh, god, that really wasn’t even that funny.” He breathes, still smiling, and wiping the tears from his eyes.

“Probably not,” Sherlock allows, dragging his hands over his face and rubbing at his neck. “But on three hours sleep, almost anything is.”

“Three hours of sleep? We went to sleep at the same time and I got at least seven.”

“Couldn’t sleep last night.” Sherlock says dismissively, waving a hand in John’s direction and clearly wishing he’d said nothing.

John decides not to pry, at least not now. There’s something Sherlock’s holding back, but it doesn’t feel like the right time to discuss whatever it is. He looks back down at the gun in his lap.

“Honestly, I just don’t believe it.” It shouldn’t mean this much to him. It’s just a hunk of metal, made to hurt, made for killing. But somehow, everything that was John Watson is embedded in its scarred surface. The army doctor, the soldier, the muscle in the operation, Sherlock’s protector - everything that made him who he used to be, it’s right here, heavy in his palm.

“I was waiting. Until you were -”

“Not liable to lose my shit and shoot you?” John laughs again, only half joking. He tucks the sig quickly at the small of his back and drags his cardigan down to cover it.

“ _John_. No. Of course not.” Sherlock shakes his head rapidly, uncomfortable, his eyes serious and vaguely melancholy. “Just hadn’t been the right time. We’ve been a trifle busy, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“I’d noticed.” John settles back against the stiff cushioning, the sig nestled familiar against his spine. “Ah, that does feel better. And safer.”

“You weren’t _you_ without it.” Sherlock’s voice is low and earnest. He picks at the now soggy chips cooling between them, licks a drip of ghastly thick brown gravy off his thumb.

He lets his tongue linger on his thumb just long enough that John’s neck goes hot.

“You like me with a gun.” John murmurs, rough, his belly fluttering at the memory of how that tongue felt on his overheated skin.

“Well, maybe a bit.” Sherlock blushes, lowers his eyes and looks up at John through his lashes.

John can’t help nibbling at his lip as he returns Sherlock’s heated gaze. “You are an absolutely incurable flirt, Sherlock Holmes. You keep it up, I’m going to end up shagging you right over this table.”

Sherlock bites into his own lip, mirroring John, “Alright,” he says, low and rough, his eyes shimmering.

“You know, we’re in mortal danger right now. _Timing_.”

“What’s new?” Sherlock tilts his head and shrugs, shoves the plate of chips towards John.

“Very true.” John lifts one limp chip up and lets the gravy drip off before folding it in half and shoving it unceremoniously in his mouth.

Sherlock watches him chew and then makes an impatient noise and stretches his arms above his head. “Well, as we’re stuck here until Mycroft’s people show up, I’m going to get another drink. A coffee this time, I think.”

“Get me another beer, love?”

“Of course.” Sherlock shimmies out of the booth, unfolding his long legs somewhat clumsily, and affection swells warm through John, making him sigh as he smiles up at Sherlock looking down at him. Sherlock’s nose crinkles up and he pauses mid-step. “What?”

“Nothing. Same thing it’s always been. I just fucking love you like mad.” John says it unabashedly, uncautiously, loudly - still vaguely surprised at the ease with which the words come out now, after all the years of not saying it. After all the times he said it only to himself, curled alone in his bed, or worse, in Sherlock’s dusty abandoned one, weeping and miserable. Now the words are sweet as sugar, warm as honey, melting over his tongue.

“I love you, too.” Sherlock pauses, blinks rapid fire, swallows. “I’m - _in love_ with you. Horribly.”

“Good,” John murmurs, running his hand possessively over Sherlock’s hip. “Glad to hear it. It would be pretty embarrassing at this point if you weren’t.”

“I’ve always been. Always.” Sherlock says seriously. He covers John’s hand on his hip with his own larger one, squeezes, and then bends to brush a whisper-light kiss against John’s hair. “Be right back.”

Sherlock returns quickly, a steaming cup of extremely black coffee in one hand, and a fresh pint for John in the other. He slides in beside John instead of across from him. Their elbows bump as Sherlock stirs in sugar, and John allows one hand to fall casually onto Sherlock’s knee under the table. Sherlock’s pleased little smile, the slight reddening of the tips of his ears, infuses John’s whole body with a quiet kind of joy. He keeps surprising himself, his capacity for happiness growing exponentially the longer he’s home, the longer he’s with Sherlock.

They sit in companionable silence until Mycroft calls to let them know the tail is waiting outside.

They leave the table cluttered with drinks and balled up napkins, and quickly slip outside. There’s a cab waiting, the driver clearly one of Mycroft’s people. They duck in the back and cautiously make their way home, thighs pressed together, Sherlock’s right foot tucked behind John’s left ankle. Sherlock doesn’t say a word on the ride, his head tipped forward against the window, hands tented under his nose. _I need to think, John._ John leaves him be, can’t help turning round occasionally to look behind them, make sure the tail is still there. He never takes his hand off his gun.

Sherlock doesn’t speak when they get home. He takes the steps up to the flat two at a time while John carefully bolts the front door behind them. Mrs Hudson is home, he can see her outline moving behind the etched glass window. Something in him needs to check on her, make sure she’s safe.

“Sherlock, I’m going to -” He trails off. Sherlock’s already in their flat, deep inside that extraordinary mind of his. He won’t notice John spending thirty minutes catching up with Mrs Hudson.

John raises his hand to knock, and the door swings open.

“John. What are you doing? Is everything alright?”

“Yes, of course,” John lies easily. “Just come to raid the fridge. Any of those apple pasties from yesterday left?

She smiles, though her eyes narrow suspiciously, and swats at him with her ever present dish towel, shaking her head. “Where’s the other half?”

“He’s upstairs.” _The other half_ \- what a lovely phrase. It’s no different, really, from how she’s always referred to them, except now they belong to each other properly.

He smiles and takes her hands, squeezing lightly. “He’s, you know, off in that big brain somewhere.”

“Ah, well then. I suppose I’ll have to scold him properly tomorrow.” Mrs Hudson ushers John inside. “Cuppa tea with your pasty?”

“Yes, thanks. Just for a few minutes though, and then I have to -” John begins, not wanting to end up spending the entire evening trapped on Mrs Hudson’s overly springy sofa watching talk shows.

“Get back to him. I know. I know how you two are.” She waves a dismissive hand, already moving into the kitchen.

John makes sure all her windows and doors are locked as she chatters he way through boiling the water, and scans the alley for anything out of the ordinary as she slices some cheddar to go with the pasties. Satisfied she’s as safe as she can be, he settles down at the kitchen table, feeling unaccountably grateful to be able to listen to the latest neighbourly gossip.

***

Sherlock’s coat is still puddled on the floor just inside the door, where he must have shaken it off before climbing into his chair and assuming his customary thinking pose. The sight of him squatting there, socked feet curled over the lip of the cushion, elbows tucked between his bent knees, his eyes fixed on things John can’t see, is the most comforting and familiar thing John can imagine.

Despite Malvo, despite the chaos swirling around them, the danger lurking just out of sight, just out of John’s ability to do anything about it - things feel _almost_ right. John very nearly feels at home in his own skin again - his belly full of Mrs Hudson’s cooking, his jumpers and jeans folded tidily in their - _their_ \- dresser, the dusty floorboards creaking familiarly under his feet, the cool weight of the Sig resting against his spine.

 _This is their life_. His and Sherlock’s. The one they were _meant_ to have. Before everything went to hell.

John leaves Sherlock to think, toes off his shoes and pads into the kitchen to make tea. He’s attuned to every detail - the slightly cardboard smell of the teabags, the grease spatter on the side of the electric kettle, the loose piece of countertop he’d always planned to fix but had never gotten around to. _Home._ And Sherlock alive and well and in the sitting room. He swallows down a sudden lump in his throat, though he’s smiling. _My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, isn’t dead._

 _Ella._ He was supposed to see Ella this afternoon. _Shit._

The kettle whistles and John pours two cups of tea, though he knows Sherlock’s will go untouched until it’s cold and bitter. He sets the cup next to Sherlock’s chair, on the floor, and grabs his phone to email Ella about rescheduling. One damn appointment and she’s probably already completely fed up with him.

He takes his time sending the email, words it carefully, beginning and ending with a profuse apology for having forgotten, and then shuts the phone off. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone. Doesn’t want to hear it ring or buzz or interrupt _this_ , this almost-but-not-quite-there normalcy of Sherlock in his mind palace and a hot mug of tea in John’s hand and the smell of grease and coffee wafting up from Speedy’s, and the distant sounds of traffic and the ducks in Regent’s Park, and everything that still felt removed from his inner self yesterday. Now it’s getting in. It’s feeling _right_ again, which is both unexpected and achingly welcome.

Eventually, he moves to his own chair and flips on the telly, but keeps the volume low. He’s halfway through an episode of Masterchef when Sherlock’s phone rings. Sherlock doesn’t stir, his eyes moving rapidly behind closed lids, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Sherlock. _Sherlock._ ” John touches his knee gently, but Sherlock shakes him off without opening his eyes. John takes the call. “Mycroft. He’s thinking right now. Well, you can talk to me.”

An annoyed exhalation crackles through the speaker.

“I realise I’m not a genius like Sherlock nor one of your incredibly well-trained lackeys, but shockingly I _am_ capable of processing human speech. I made it through medical school and everything. I’ll just take notes if I get confused, shall I?”

“John, your sarcasm isn’t necessary.”

“Wait, wait, let me get a pen. Not sure if I understood all of that.”

Mycroft sighs heavily and clears his throat. “I’ll just press on then. Malvo’s methodology is unsurprisingly similar to his mentor’s. He works mostly alone, _dispatching_ anyone who’s been his ally as soon as he no longer needs them. We were able to tail the American you saw in the pub and he seems to be staying in a youth hostel in King’s Cross. We’ve got people in there now to watch him.”

“And Sherlock and I, what? Just sit here? Wait?”

“For now. You’re not in immediate danger. Malvo doesn’t want to kill you, John.”

“No? I’m going to beg to differ on that particular point. He followed me from Minnesota to London. He doesn't want to be friends and have a nice holiday at the fucking seaside.”

“No. But I believe - I believe he wants to do to you what Jim Moriarty wanted to do to my dear brother. Break you down, haunt you, lurk at the edges until he destroys you piece by piece.”

John laughs bitterly. “He’s a bit late for that.”

“So dramatic. You're taking lessons from my brother."

"You're really not one to talk, Mycroft."

"It’s a psychological game, John. For now, anyway. And we have people in the buildings all around you. You’re being watched very closely.”

John knows what that means. “You have cameras in the flat?”

“John -” Mycroft sounds both evasive and guilty.

“Do you have sodding cameras in the flat, Mycroft?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Wherever we believed they were necessary.”

“In the bedroom?”

“Yes.”

“While I appreciate the diligence, on some level, I really don’t want MI6 watching us in bed, yeah? Where’s the camera?”

“John, no one has watched anything private -”

The righteous tone in Mycroft’s voice sends John’s anger spiking. Suddenly his hands are fists, his body going tense. Ready for a fight. “Everything is private, it’s our _fucking bedroom_. Where’s the goddamned camera? I’m taking it out.”

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea, John.”

“Well, I really don’t give a shit. I don’t want thirty of your people in some windowless room somewhere getting hot watching me and Sherlock while we’re in bed together. It's fucking disgusting and intrusive and there are lines, Mycroft. I know you don't think so, but there _are_ lines you do not bloody cross.” John pauses, considering. “Were you watching us last night?”

“No. When it - became clear that you were - no. It was shut off.”

For some reason he can't pinpoint, John believes him. “This morning?”

“Only briefly." Mycroft actually sounds vaguely nervous, though it's probably mostly an act.

John wants to punch him in his smug face.

“It’s coming the fuck _out._ I’ll tear the goddamned room apart, Mycroft, I swear to god.”

Mycroft sighs, long-suffering and resigned. “No need for that, John. It’s on top of the wardrobe. On the left hand side.”

“And that’s the only one?”

“That’s the only one.”

John pauses, tucks the phone against his shoulder while he walks into the bedroom and pulls a chair over to the wardrobe. “I don’t mean to be ungrateful -”

Mycroft smacks his lips, and sighs again. “And yet…”

"I wasn't finished." John stands on his toes, reaches up and feels around until he locates a small cube, no bigger than a die.

"Oh, by all means, then. Continue."

"I don't mean to be ungrateful, but if you ever put a goddamned camera in my bedroom again, I'll beat the shit out of you."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a promise."

"John, I realise you've been out of the country for a rather long time, but may I remind you -"

"That you're the most important man in the country and you could have me killed with a snap of your fingers? You don't scare me, Mycroft."

There's silence on the other end of the line.

John takes the camera into the kitchen and digs a tin opener out of a drawer. "You may be the British government to most people, but to me, you're my annoying brother in law."

“Brother in law?” Mycroft sniffs, his words dripping with disdain.

“More or less.” John pauses as he contemplates which angle is best to begin his attack on the camera. “Alright, now listen. Malvo is a sneaky fuck. He’s got a face like tinned corned beef, ugly as all hell, you’d think people would remember him...but somehow. Somehow he manages to fade, to fit in. He’s in London, just waiting for his fucking moment. And he’s coming for me. I’m not giving up this thing, this _life_. With Sherlock. Not again. So don’t you goddamned well sit down on the job like you did with Moriarty, you hear me?”

The silence on the other end of the line is sharp and cold. John can hear Mycroft breathing.

“You fucked up with Moriarty, and you know it. Sherlock knows it, too, whether he wants to admit it to himself or not. But there’s no good reason Moriarty should have been allowed to do what he did to us, not with you being who you are. Something _slipped_. Something went wrong last time.” John can hear the venom in his voice. Doesn’t care.

Mycroft still says nothing.

“Are we done, then?” John braces the camera, lens up, between the kettle and the white enamel lip of the hob, which sits slightly above the countertop.

“We’re done. I’ll be in touch. Make my life marginally less complicated, would you, and don’t leave the flat again tonight.”

“We won’t.”

“Good evening, John.”

John doesn’t reciprocate the goodbye, just slides his thumb across the screen to end the call and slips the phone in his back pocket. He lands the first blow to the camera, and doesn’t need to land a second. The plastic shatters under the heavy stainless steel handle of the tin opener, shards of black skittering across the countertops and ringing in the metal sink.

John sweeps the pieces into his cupped hand, and dumps them into the bin. Now in a thumpingly bad mood after his discussion with Mycroft, he bends down to dig round in what used to be his makeshift liquor cabinet, and is in actuality, the dank space underneath the sink. Mrs Hudson must have gotten rid of most of it, because the space is much emptier than he remembers leaving it, but he locates a dusty half full bottle of Tesco’s Special Reserve scotch - he hadn’t been picky back then - and pours two fingers of it into a smudged mug.

It tastes fairly horrible and burns like acid as he knocks it back, but the warmth that follows takes the edge off his mood. A cat yowls in the alley and his nerves jangle. He pours another scant half inch and sips it slowly, leaning against the window frame, knee propped on the radiator. He feels as though something’s down there, in the blackness, just outside the glowing circles of the streetlamps. Like the bogeyman under the bed. He shakes his head. Ridiculous. They’re just criminals, just like Moriarty was. Flesh and blood.

He scrubs his hands over his face and yawns. With the warm heaviness of whiskey suffusing his limbs, he suddenly wants to lie down and shut his eyes. The sofa and the telly sound like the perfect solution. Just as he’s setting the mug back in the sink, Sherlock’s silhouette appears in the doorway, backlit by the soft yellow light in the sitting room. His hair is a riot, a halo of fuzzy tugged-on curls, his shirt cuffs undone, standing out winglike around his bony elbows.

“Hey.” John murmurs, crossing the darkened kitchen to tuck his arms around Sherlock’s waist. “You okay?”

Sherlock nods, his eyes glittering black in the late evening shadows. “More than okay. I know what we need to do to draw Malvo out. I know what we need to do, John.”

John’s mouth goes dry. _Not ready for this yet. Not ready for this game._

Sherlock’s arms drape instinctively over John’s shoulders, fingers carding absently through the wispy hairs at the nape of John’s neck. He tilts his head. “You don’t want to.”

“No.” John can’t even attempt dishonesty. Not now. Not with Sherlock.

“I know. But, better to go get him than sit here and wait, yes?” Sherlock strokes down over John’s shoulders, the curve of his neck. Soothing him. The gentleness is painful.

“Yeah.” John swallows, the bitter aftertaste of the whiskey on the back of his tongue. Malvo’s face flashes in front of him, that smug dirty smile, his overlarge teeth. “ _Yeah._ Let’s get the bastard. Fuck him.”

“And there he is.” Sherlock’s crooked smile is visible even in the near dark.

John tries to smile back, tugs Sherlock’s head down to put their mouths together. Sherlock hums warm into his mouth, kisses John deep and unhurriedly, spinning them so John’s spine is pressed against the doorway. They kiss like they’ve no where else to be, like they could stay here forever, in the silence of this purple twilight, the very last of the daylight ribboning under the front curtains and across the faded carpeting.

Finally John slides his kiss-stung mouth down Sherlock’s stubbly jaw and nuzzles into the curve of his throat. Sherlock breathes steady, John’s hands flat against his belly, and John wants nothing more than to pull them both into bed and just listen to each other’s hearts beating, count one another’s eyelashes, kiss until their lips are raw.

No time for that yet. John pulls back and brushes Sherlock’s hair from his forehead. “Alright, gorgeous. Tell me what we have to do.”


End file.
